


Éinín—Out of the Nest

by crewdlydrawn



Series: Éinín [2]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blackouts, Blow Jobs, Brief use of discriminating slur, Daddy Kink, F/M, Gun Violence, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Major Character Injury, Marijuana, Multi, Original Character(s), Recreational Drug Use, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 67,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After spending six years in Gotham with Bane and Barsad, and four years in training with the League of Shadows, John Blake has returned to his home city with his own role to play in the attempt to take down the beacon of corruption. Having grown into adulthood, his relationships with his family begin to take on new meanings. Only his dads aren't telling him everything, and Bruce Wayne suddenly resurfaces after being presumed dead for years, forcing them to adjust their plans.</p><p>[This fic was previously deleted, originally published January 2014.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Theatricality, stealth and deception…_

_…these are agents that will be put to use along with the skills you will learn.”_

If John had thought the climb up the mountain had been tough, taxing, near-breaking, he had had no idea what to expect when they had settled in at the fortress.  Only a few minutes had initially been spent with Ra’s—introductions, a promise from Barsad that he would keep him out of the way until he was ready for more serious lessons—and they’d been shown to where they would be staying, Bane joining them later.  The outside view of the fortress had been shrouded by the snow, the wind and its drifts, parts of the mountain’s very peak, but inside was much larger than he had imagined.  The upper lofts of two outer wings had held mostly common rooms with mats for sleeping and storing the few personal items deemed necessary or allowable.  John had shared a small partitioned space with Bane and Barsad, his pallet close to theirs, a comfort in the quiet, chill nights, especially in the beginning when everything had been so new. 

At first, he had only watched.  While men he didn’t know had trained in pairs, in groups, while Bane took on those who were strong enough to go toe to toe with his mass, while Barsad trained younger, newer-looking men, John had sat on the edge of the upper level ringing the open areas, eyeing their moves, trying to follow their bodies as they’d tangled and danced.  It had been hard to absorb, but the observation had helped prepare his mind for his own learning.  They had started off slowly; though Barsad had already taught him how to move soundlessly through Gotham’s streets, had already shown him the basics of defending himself—though he’d had practice even in his early years just in fending off other kids—there he’d begun to learn ways of attack.   

During his time of observation, Barsad had set a strict workout schedule for him.  Though he had already been quick on his feet and had a fast reaction time, he had still been significantly smaller than the other men—‘scrawny,’ as announced by Kojo before he’d left to join a more advanced group—and had needed to build himself up before contending with them.  When they had still been in Gotham, he had spent more time running than with specialized workouts, but the fortress and its layout had not been conducive to that kind of movement.  Instead, he had been assigned strengthening exercises, a weights regimen, and his food intake had been increased.  That part had been unexpectedly hard at first, but he had worked to adjust.

It had taken months, a frustratingly long time, but when John had at last been allowed to step onto the practice mats, he had kept himself calm, alert, eager but controlled—he hadn’t been about to ruin what he had earned.  Nevertheless, he had found himself on his ass faster than anticipated, and it had quickly become a regular occurrence.  When it had gotten him feeling down, eating his evening meal quietly, stewing over it, Bane had reminded him that the fall was not as important as the rising up, afterward.  

                              _“You have to become more than just a man…”_

It hadn’t been like a cartoon ninja montage, or like The Karate Kid, or like anything John had thought it would have been like.  It had been harsh, grueling, and had focused more on his control over his own body at first than over any tools he employed.  His balance, his speed, his agility and his endurance had been tested, furthered and honed each day, leaving him exhausted each night, dropping onto his pallet.  He had slept deeply, more deeply than ever before, yet waking up before dawn each morning had still felt like dragging himself from the dead of night.  There had been many men, even some younger than Barsad, but John had kept mostly to himself, close to them.  Though names had been learned to help more easily find sparring partners, to form the necessary alliances they had told him he would need to associate with the League, his time hadn’t been for making friends. 

Bo staffs, swords, and daggers had been added slowly over the course of his hand-to-hand and close-combat training.  What height he’d had left to gain had come along with a new layer of muscle, small though it had seemed in comparison.  A year’s cycle of seasons below the mountain had had him settled in further, having made a home out of the walls and halls of the fortress.  It hadn’t been the same as having the city around him, having the rooftops to escape to, the open air without a cutting, deadly wind ready to pluck him off the mountain’s peak, but he’d had food, chores, studies for his mind as well as his body’s lessons, and Bane and Barsad had been with him as much as possible; he had been content to do his work. 

That next year, he had been allowed back down to the village nestled in the crook of the rocky ledges.  The first run had only been for the market—the League traded their protective services, among other things, he was told, for the support of the village in supplies—and he had been told to keep his mouth shut, to follow Barsad’s lead, to simply carry his pack and behave.  Later on, he had been able to lead a small group without Barsad, without someone senior to his own position in training.  Their presence had been respected, the manner of dress they kept clearly announcing their allegiance to the League and making for smoother dealings. 

Supplies had not been the only things they had gathered, over time.  While he had heard of the practice from others, along with a brief explanation from Barsad, it hadn’t been until nearly two years into their stay that he had personally escorted condemned prisoners from the village areas back up the mountain to the fortress.  There had been men and women capable of catching thieves, of rounding up those who were violent, who had killed, but with the presence at the top of the crag, the village leaders had left it up to the League to mete out justice and punishment as they saw fit, an ultimate end of the system of law they had had in place.  There had been a council for the League, and it had been those men and women who had set the final judgments in place and dealt with those who had been brought up.  John had not been privy to those sessions, had never seen what happened to those he’d gathered unless they had been given a chance to serve the League directly, which a few had been.

Growing stronger, facing more of the men and women in the League, John’s training advanced past some of those with whom he had begun.  At that point, nearly two and a half years after leaving Gotham, he had gotten to see Ra’s al Ghul up close again, instead of only glances of his movements through the training halls, through the corridors or hearing his voice’s rich, commanding echo tumbling over the rafters.  He had been in the middle of a match with a girl only a few years older than him, his attention focused, adrenaline high, when he had sensed the addition in the room.  It hadn’t been unusual for trainees to come and go during their free time, to watch others as they sparred, but he could tell immediately that it was no mere trainee that had joined them.  The already quiet room had gone more still around them, and when he had spared a glance, the figure at the edge of the shadows had sent a chill down his spine that had nearly distracted him enough to land him on his ass.  Nearly.

Instead, he had won that match, and the next, and the third after that at which Ra’s had come partway out from the recess of the walls, clapping his hands and giving John an approving nod as he’d helped up his winded opponent.  Through his next handful of matches, Ra’s had spoken evenly and calmly from his place leaning against a support post at the edge of the practice mat’s square, giving small pieces of advice to adjust John’s moves, his stance, his attentions.  John had taken great care to listen to each word, to follow his instructions, and though he had not seen the man leave that day, he had felt his approval even without seeing more evidence of it. 

A half-dozen more times over the course of the next several months had seen Ra’s at the edge of John’s matches, even one or two with Barsad—at which his dad had never looked quite so proud—though never when Bane was around him.  It had been nerve-wracking, intense, but exhilarating and fulfilling when he could please the man who stood in charge of so great a number of fighters.  Outside, he had kept calm, a proper student, but inside he had glowed with pride.  He had felt especially honored to have been watched, since the entire fortress had still been abuzz with talk of Ra’s and the student he had taken on not that long before John and they had arrived.  His presence had still been felt among members, his authority, but most of his time was being devoted to one trainee.  Neither Bane nor Barsad had spoken of him other than to remind John to stay out of their leader’s way.  Not wanting to go against their wishes, John had merely filed away what information he had in case he needed it, later.

Four years, in total, had been spent in his training.  The majority of it had passed within the cover and grounds of the fortress, though there had been reprieves lower in the mountain range in addition to tasks and assignments that had led him down into the villages.  By its end, he had grown in stature, in strength and ability, and in confidence within himself.  While he had not felt the equal of most of the men and women around him, he had felt he had his own place among them.  Having graduated from training robes and padded armor, he had earned his own set of suits to keep.  One had been lighter weight, more breathable and with much more give, meant to be worn either under specific kinds of body armor or while continuing to maintain his training on his own.  The other had been hard-shelled armor, covering nearly his entire body, to be completed with only a pair of boots and a scarf over his head to conceal him in the shadows when necessary.  With them, he felt the part of a ninja.

During those few months that Ra’s had been spending time with him, Talia had finally joined them in the mountains.  John had known that she would be arriving sometime after they had, that she had to take care of some things in Gotham before making the trip, but had hoped it would have been sooner.  Her reunion with John had been short, longer with Bane and with Barsad, but initially a brief thing even so.  Someone else had given out the longest welcoming, and apparently none of them had seen fit to mention to him in all of the years he’d known them that Talia was, in fact, the daughter of their leader—her full name was Talia al Ghul.  The woman he’d known from the time he had been eight years old, who had treated him very much like a little brother in all the years since, whom he’d looked up to, was far more powerful than he had even known, in ways that had nothing to do with Gotham’s financials and social circles.

That power had come in handy.  His training having come to a satisfactory level, Bane and Barsad had stayed behind while he had travelled with her before coming back to the United States.  They hadn’t explained directly, but he had planned to ask them about it, later, if they would talk about it then.  He had grown, and with that came more privilege to knowledge at times.  With Talia, he had seen bits of Europe that had blown his mind even as she had assured him they were far from the most impressive sights to be seen.  It hadn’t seemed to matter where they went, or where they wanted to stay; if Talia’s name—Talia or Miranda, depending on where they were and who they were dealing with—hadn’t gotten her where she wanted, her money certainly had.  John had never been witness to such wondrous buildings, nothing even close.  He had been in awe, but Talia had tempered that awe with understanding.

Because the high life was not the only view he had been given.  While he had seen the inside of hotels he hadn’t thought physically possible to exist, he had also been witness to the depths of poverty that resided right next door to some of the most affluent areas of the world.  It was a huge disconnect, and he had been confused by it, of which Talia had only seemed to approve.   The League had spoken of the world’s corruption, and John knew enough about Gotham’s from first-hand experience, but nothing compared to seeing the squalor left behind by high-rise capitalism in so many places.  It had given him a new appreciation for the League’s goals, the need for a stamping out of corruption and injustice in order to foster new, proper growth within the species; in order to make room for equality.  He was convinced of the mission, believed in it, and he felt a stronger kinship with its members both for his time spent as well as for a sharing of ideals.

He had been told to study the city during the day when he was young, its people, its habits, its rhythms.  They had needed him to map it out, know it inside and out, know locations and systems, patterns and flows, every bit he could possibly absorb, and he had.  He had simply not been allowed to do so at night unless one or the both of them were with him to keep him safe.  It had been later, when he’d returned from Europe, that he had allowed himself to study the night life of the city, and it had startled him at first, the differences.  It was as if Gotham led a double life, had a split personality, when it came to what went on during the day and after darkness fell and settled about the city’s shoulders. The more he saw of it, the more disgusted he became.

____________________

Just as his pile of paperwork had dwindled down to about five more accounts’ worth, one of the puffed-up suits that plagued the offices strode by his cubicle and dumped a heavy stack—easily two full inches thick—of sheets and folders onto his desk.

“By tonight, O’Kelley,” came the haughty, expectant tone of one who thought all those below his own pay scale were worthless or, worse, his personal servants.  Implicit in the command was the ever-present threat of ‘I’ll have your job for this if you don’t,’ whether or not that would actually happen.  This instance marked the second time in three days that John Daggett, the suit in question, had done this to him.  If office gossip could be trusted at all, Daggett had his own company to work on, fledgling though it was.  No one seemed to think very highly of its stock worth or its future, perhaps why he held onto his position at Wayne’s.

John sighed as the man strode away without bothering to wait for a response or agreement, and with an overconfident swagger in his step.  As Jonathan O’Kelley, data entry technician—a nicer way to say ‘the peons at the bottom of the accounting ladder’—at Wayne Enterprises, John would once again be late in returning home for dinner.  Checking out the stack of papers, he guessed it would be quite late, indeed.  On the one hand, it wouldn’t much matter; his dinners were eaten almost exclusively alone right now, and another couple of hours wouldn’t change the quiet apartment he’d be going back to.  If anything, it would stave off a bit of the loneliness that he had to remind himself daily was only temporary.  At least a call from Barsad the previous night had promised that, at last, their reunion was within a week’s time. 

That night, work finished, John came home to his apartment door standing open several inches, though the knob and frame were intact.  It had to have been picked rather than opened by brute force.  Taking a deep breath, he slowly pushed open the door, knowing at just what speed he could do so to not allow the hinges to creak at the motion.  Inside, the apartment was dark, only a vague sodium-yellow glow coming from the streetlights that feigned at illuminating the alley behind his building.  It was enough to make out shapes in the room, shadowy forms he had memorized in the dark.  The kitchen counter was to the right as he silently stepped inside and pushed the door steadily closed, the latch making no sound as he settled it.  The table, left, couch ahead and its second—third? fourth?—hand coffee table in front of it.  He let his eyes adjust as they took in the scene.  Nothing was out of place that he could see, not missing or added; time to move on.  The apartment only had two rooms, if he didn’t count the bathroom, and no one ever did.

Stepping over to his bedroom door, he set down his messenger bag and patted the pocket he knew his knife was in.  He would not draw it unless necessary, but knew it would be available if needed.  The door to his bedroom opened silently at his touch, and he stepped over the threshold, stopping the instant he entered.

There it was, the reason he never pulled his knife before knowing who was in the dark.  A grin creased his face as he turned calmly to the closet door, letting himself inhale and savor the scent of perfume that was wafting gently out through the slats.  He was meant to know, meant to find her.  It was a game they had played before.

Still, his heartbeat sped up a little and his breath quickened as he reached for the twin handles that opened the shutter-like doors to the closet.  He forced his hands to stop trembling, pulling the doors open and unable to help grinning like a fool at the visit.

That is, until he found himself tackled full-force to the floor, air pushed out of his lungs and head ground into the cheap, scratchy carpet.  “Oof!” he breathed, instinctively clinging to the body that had slammed down onto his.  Thickly-spun woolen material met his fingers, wrapped snugly around a well-curved but solid form.  His grin was in his voice as he spoke her name in greeting.  “Talia.”


	2. Chapter 2

A soft chuckle rumbled against his chest, followed by smooth hands rucking up his dress shirt, tugging at his tie.  “So formally dressed,” she spoke through a smile, gently working the knot at his collar loose before sliding the smooth line of material from around his neck.  “No need for this, now, is there?” she winked playfully at him.  He didn’t think too much of it as she kissed his forehead, draping his unknotted tie around her shoulders before standing. 

Following her to his feet, he reached out to flick the switch on the wall, giving them soft lamplight to see by.  “Are you hungry?” he asked, shrugging off his sport coat and hanging it up in the closet she’d used as her hiding spot.  He had exactly two suits that he alternated between in order to fit into the look of the rest of the Wayne Enterprises employee pool without looking like he had too much money; a careful balance.  “I’ve got some leftover stir-fry from last night, or I could order something…” 

Barsad had tried to teach him to cook, but was very limited, himself.  Instead, Talia had been the one to show him the finer things; food not cooked directly over a fire and not made of three or fewer ingredients.  Since being set up in the apartment, he liked to show her how well he could take care of himself when she stopped by.  He had grown in his time abroad, and learned how to deal with people—how to get what he wanted from them, and make them do what he needed them to.  Those skills were serving him well in the business world.  Social services seemed like nothing compared to the cut-throat manner of people concerned only with money, status, and power.  Seeing to his own needs, however, alone in his living space, was proving to be a unique challenge.

When Talia turned and left the room without answering his question, John took advantage of the moment and quickly cleaned up some stray clothes that had been strewn about the floor, flipped the sheets and blanket back up over the small bed he almost always forgot to make, and closed the closet doors before walking out to the other room.  “So… does one of those sound okay?” he asked, as always anxious to please her.

She had already opened up the small refrigerator, grimy and yellowed inside from however many tenants it had already seen, and was looking over the contents of a plastic food storage container.  “This is from yesterday?” she asked rather skeptically.  Her nose wrinkled in displeasure as she sniffed at the stir-fry remains inside.

“Uhm… yeah,” he replied, suddenly less certain of the timeframe he thought he remembered.  “Pretty sure…”  Going over the last few days in his head, he couldn’t truly pick out which one seemed the most likely candidate for having been ‘stir-fry night’.  He knew Barsad had called just the previous evening, of that much he was absolutely certain.  A phone call from family, however, was a lot more important in his memory than dinner, especially when the call contained news of a near-drawing return, and John couldn’t even use that event to anchor the order of dinners around.  “I guess,” he added meekly. “I can’t really promise either way.”

Talia sighed, a sound born of practiced disappointment.  “Men.”

 “It was good when I had it, though,” he defended, not willing to let his moment of culinary achievement go to waste over poor refrigerator management.  “I know that doesn’t help, _now_ …”

“Hardly,” she agreed.  “Vegetables?  Meat?”  She opened the mostly-empty fridge drawers, clicking her tongue when no fresh food to speak of was found.  “I taught you to shop better for yourself than this, little brother,” she chided.

John shifted uncomfortably as she replaced the drawers and closed up the fridge, tossing the remains of his stir-fry into the trash bin.  “Yeah,” he acknowledged, trying not to sound defensive.  “But this week’s been really busy, and I haven’t seen you at all and I only got a call from Barsad like last night and it just… felt lonely here, I guess.”  His words all ran together and he knew they made him sound weak—hell, he knew the whole situation they were discussing made him _actually_ weak—but he couldn’t help it.  He hadn’t gone this long without being with his family since he’d had them.  It felt like there was a missing piece to him when they were gone; he just couldn’t feel whole.  It made everything harder. 

Talia regarded him quietly for a moment, and he feared she was going to scold him for showing such a lack, but she didn’t.  Instead, she closed the short distance between them and rose up on her toes to press her lips to his, an intimacy she had shared with him only in times he had needed comfort.  They left again too quickly for his own to react, which was for the best if it was going to stay that innocent.  His relationship with his sister wasn’t physical like that, and he had to take care that his body didn’t overstep its bounds.  He was still a teen, though barely, and, as Bane had put it once, as such, was not yet past his ‘hot-blooded years.’  Despite feeling defensive over the title, he had to admit it was fairly accurate to how his body often reacted to Talia’s being close to him.

Once pulled away, she ran a finger down his cheek lightly.  “Sometimes we forget how fragile our little brother is, don’t we,” she said softly.

John looked down in shame.  “I’m sorry, sister,” he repented, knowing it would be received even if it wouldn’t change things.  “I try to be strong for you.”

She just stepped back, lifting herself up and back to sit on the edge of the countertop and then, facing him more at his level, beckoned him to come stand in front of her.  As he did, she took his head in her hands even while his face stayed aimed downward.  Her thumbs ran along his jawline, and fingers flitted over his ears for several moments before she spoke again. 

“You are very strong for us, John.  Stronger than we ever expected you to be.”  Her hold tightened a little, though not near the bruising force he knew even her smaller, more delicate-looking hands were capable of.  “We all have weaknesses inside of us, things that make us worry, or hurt, or hold back.  But,” she paused, making him look up first before she continued, “but it is not the quality or number of our weaknesses that proves our level of strength, little brother; it is how we incorporate them, compensate for them, and stand firm even in their presence within the foundations of our beings.  That is true strength, not its lack.”  She stared him down until he nodded, and he couldn’t help but feel a little better.  She did that to him, made him feel better, stronger, like he could really be worthy of her.  It was an amazing feeling.  “Remember that when you feel weak, John, and you will be stronger for it.”

 “Yes, sister.”  He smiled a small smile, his heart lighter.  Lighter and skipping a beat when her next move was to curl her slender fingers around the back of his neck, threading them through the longer hairs hanging down towards his shoulders.  There was a light tug, and his eyes closed halfway at the pleasant sensation it brought.

Talia chuckled.  “So easy to get a reaction from; so quick.”

John felt himself blush.

“It can be a disadvantage, but it is not always a bad thing,” she corrected as she stroked over his heated cheeks.  “In fact, it can work in your favor quite often.  For example,” she shifted then, and he was surprised as she tugged on his shoulder to get him to dip forward, catching up his mouth in another kiss. 

This one did not end so quickly, and he found himself responding, pressing his lips against hers in return, and resting a hand on the edge of the counter to steady his balance so he didn’t lean too much.  _Any moment it will end_ , he reminded himself; it always did.  _Don’t get excited about it_.  Then there was a warm, wet tongue at the meeting of his lips, and sliding between them into his mouth.  John’s eyes widened as her tongue licked playfully over his, stroked along it, then withdrew to run along his lips before she pulled her head back. 

“You followed that nicely,” she approved.  “Our brothers have trained you well in many things, John, but there are a few that have been neglected out of necessity, saved until you were ready for them.”  She ran a pair of fingers over his lips that still tingled from the pressure of hers a moment before.  “And I believe you are ready, now, aren’t you, little brother?”

John’s pulse quickened even more than it already had when her eyes caught his in a stare that seemed to beckon him to act, though he wasn’t certain how best to do so.  “Yes, sister…” he replied to the spoken question. 

He didn’t have to think too long on what his action should be, though, because she slid the tie from around her neck to loop it around the back of his, tugging him closer and catching his lower lip between her teeth.  It was roughly pulled, and he tasted metal as it started to bleed, but most of its blood was licked up into Talia’s mouth, a pleased sound emerging from her throat.  He stayed still for her as his lip continued to receive the abuse, nipped and sucked at greedily until it was swollen and throbbing.  It hurt, but he had been taught never to fight her in anything—it would hurt much worse for him if he ever dared.  He also couldn’t help admitting that the pain of it felt good, too.

Licking her lips, she smiled wickedly and he felt her legs hook around his waist, trapping him tightly against the counter, the growing bulge in his pants getting harshly ground between his hips and the drawer she sat above.  He hissed, and she only grinned without an ounce of sympathy.  “You are very ready to learn, aren’t you, John,” she chuckled then, nails scraping his arms where she held them.

He could really only stammer in return.  Everything felt like a dream, like he’d wake up to reality, alone with sticky sheets, but he wasn’t waking.  “I…” he licked over his lip, feeling its bruise already and thanking whatever gods existed that the following day was the weekend and he wouldn’t go to work with teeth marks all over his face.  There was little doubt the guys in the cubicles attached to his would pounce on the opportunity to tease him mercilessly about it, though they’d find it in good humor.  “Y-yeah,” he stammered again, his breath hitching in his throat.  He felt dizzy as all of the blood in his body seemed utterly determined to rush straight for his dick, making its position pinned between the top of the drawer’s face and the bottom edge of the countertop even more acutely painful with every bit of swelling it gained.

Releasing his arms at last, leaving their red-streaked skin behind, Talia untied the strap that took the place of a belt holding her tunic closed, shrugging the material off of her smooth-skinned shoulders and letting it pool on the countertop, leaving her torso bare save for a simple black bra.  Naturally, he could focus on nothing else once the swells of her breasts were in his view.  He stared as they rose and fell gently with each breath she took.  She was breathing so calmly, so steadily, and his breath was rough, far from controlled with how worked up he already felt.  He desperately wanted to touch her, to cup his hands over the bra, to pull it off of her; the suspense was going to kill him. 

He’d seen naked girls before; Barsad had taken him to a strip club once when he’d turned eighteen, in order to ‘educate him’ on the female body.  John had had a new appreciation for the worth of a ten-dollar bill afterward.  Of course, he’d also seen sex before; hell, he had internet access.  But the internet wasn’t in-person with real people in front of him, and the club had been full of strangers.  He’d gotten a lap-dance, but the memory was pretty embarrassing as he’d gone off in his pants shortly after it, much to Barsad’s amusement.  That had been over a year ago, and though he had what he considered to be an impressive collection of bookmarks on his browser, his body was aching for contact now that it was so close to getting it.

The thought suddenly hit him that this might not end up how he was imagining, that Talia could be testing him, or teasing him, or any number of things that would keep their interaction from ending in actual sex.  He was unable to stop a groan from working out of his throat at the thought of coming this close without, well, coming.

 “Problem?” she asked lightly, her eyes rather darkly amused.  Leaning back on her hands, she shifted her shoulders, making her back arc so that her chest was raised out towards him even more, accentuated.  

That combined with her legs already positioned around him was too much for John’s brain.  “Guh…” he so eloquently spilled out.

“Mhm,” she hummed.  “Time for a trade.”  His brow furrowed in confusion, and she continued, “I’ve shown, now it is your turn.”

Oh.  Right.  John nodded quickly and made swift, if fumbly, work of yanking his shirt off, possibly popping a thread or two as he tugged the buttons.  The undershirt he practically ripped off over his head.  Talia made a small noise of approval and he had to grin.  His chest and stomach had gotten a lot more developed as his training had increased, and he was rather proud of the definition he’d attained.  He paused, then, awaiting more reaction, but she looked to be waiting, as well.  “…What?” he panted.  There was nothing left to take off; _he_ wasn’t wearing a bra.

 “That’s hardly what I would call an even trade, little brother,” she reproached, clicking her tongue.  “I’ve seen your bare chest more times than I can count; it is not new to my eyes.”

 “…So, what is even, then?” 

She chuckled slightly.  “Pants, little brother.  Your pants.”

 “Then I’m down to just boxers,” he pointed out, expression plaintive without meaning to be, and received a mostly patient nod in return.  “Okay. Uhm, yeah,” he stammered.  It was more difficult than it should have been; he had to shimmy his way out of the slacks since Talia did not bother to relinquish her legs’ hold around his waist.  Honestly, it was the most awkward de-panting he’d ever experienced, but he managed it, standing before her clad only in blue-streaked black boxer shorts and sporting a positively obscene bulge at his crotch. 

He felt like he might as well have been fourteen all over again, feeling ashamed at getting random erections at the absolute worst of times, like while training in hand-to-hand combat with Barsad.  That one, however, he supposed wasn’t so awful in the end, because it had led to a serious discussion on what all John actually knew about sex and what his body was doing for the last couple of years before then.  From then on, he’d been quietly supplied with lube to help him masturbate better.  It was humiliating at first, sure, but also really, really helpful.  Now, though, a warm body was half wrapped around his, and though he had gotten better at not shooting off the second he touched himself, he knew his dick was making no promises if it was actually getting some pu—

John paused, unable to finish the word even in his mind.  This wasn’t just ‘some girl’ in front of him, not someone he was dating or, to be honest, paying to spend the night with him.  Not that he’d done that… yet… but he’d seriously considered it before, even saved up a bit of money to cover the expense should the opportunity arise. That is, until Barsad had found the envelope marked ‘hooker fund.’  In retrospect, labeling it had been a really stupid idea.  But this, now, was nothing like that.  This mattered.  He really wished he’d managed to get his virginity out of the way before she’d offered this, though.

Seeming to sense his hesitation even as she leaned up to peer at his legs and undoubtedly the bulge, as well, she spoke before raising her eyes back to his.  “What’s wrong, hmm?”

 “I…” he thought of all of the at least partially true answers he could give to try to satisfy the question, but one glance at her eyes informed him of just how silly a notion that really was.  As always, only the complete and utter truth would satisfy her questioning, even if the truth hurt him just a little.  “I’ve never… done this… at all,” he finally admitted.

It was a rare thing, but he was pretty sure she had just giggled at him, not the high pitched oh-you’re-so-funny kind, but lower, self-satisfied.  He felt his cheeks flush redder, and he stood a bit straighter to compensate for the embarrassment.

 “Of course you haven’t, John,” she sounded mysteriously reassuring about it.  “You’ve been kept for me.”

_WHAT?_  

That didn’t make any sense.  Well, sure, he hadn’t dated a lot, but he just hadn’t taken the time to do it, it wasn’t like it had been forbidden.  He’d kept pretty close to them over the years, even before they’d left the country for his training and in order for Talia to reconnect with her father.  There had been girls he’d seen around the city before leaving, but other than Tami, he hadn’t really talked with any of them beyond polite greetings or orders in cafés.  There’d been kissing, of course; not just with girls, but with Kojo, though it had been just that one time when they were high.  It hadn’t been mentioned again after that, and now John knew why.  Talia must have found out about it. 

“So, what… you just… sabotaged me up ‘til now?”  He tried to keep any indignation he might have felt out of his voice, but he knew he couldn’t get it all.  It felt weird to think that all of that had been going on and he hadn’t even noticed.

“To be fair, little brother, you have not tried very hard until recently.”  She ran her nails lightly down his chest, and he shivered as they skipped along his skin.  Shrugging, she continued, “Once I have had you, tasted you, shown you what it is to truly be with a woman, you will be allowed to seek out your own pleasure with other women, or with men.”  Her eyes took on a rather devious glint at that, and he had _no_ idea how he should be reacting to it. 

“I-I… Y-yeah, okay.”

Chuckling low in her throat, she leaned forward to nip at his bottom lip, sending a spike of pain into the flesh before it was washed over with a tingling sensation as she sucked lightly after.  “It is cute that you think this is something you need agree to,” she spoke against his mouth.  He heard a faint zipper sound, and her hands retreated to slide off her skirt, along with her stockings, until only a sleek pair of black silk panties stood between him and her… well, _her_.  He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the word in regards to her body, even when he was about to invade it, so he assumed; so he hoped.  Then her toes were sliding deftly below the waistband of his boxers, and he jumped at how their small, smooth pads tickled over the skin of his hips.

“T-Talia!” he called out breathlessly as her toes pawed further down.  His shorts were down to his knees, and his dick had gratefully popped free of their hold, hitting the counter’s edge and making him hiss out and wince.  He nearly doubled over at what next assaulted his cock, though; her toes tickled, teased, and ran over his sensitive skin all around the base of his cock, almost-but-not-quite touching the shaft of it.  “F-fuck,” he slipped, then immediately braced for the hit he expected it to earn him.  Opening one eye to peek at her, he blinked them both open when she merely smiled, looking amused.  “…Sorry…” he figured he should probably add. 

“Our brother is not here to admonish your run-away mouth, John, and it would perhaps be unnecessarily cruel of me to expect you to curb it while I reduce your body to rubble…”  He didn’t like the sound of that.  Then again, he was completely intrigued by the sound of that, especially intrigued below his waist.  “I will not punish your wicked little tongue tonight, my little brother.”

“Oh thank-fucking-God, because Jesus Christ,” he rushed out, and Talia laughed.  She pressed her toes into the crease of his groin, and his breath let out in a rush of a groan, his hands gripping at the counter’s edge to keep his balance while his knees decided holding steady was no longer in their natural job description.  “F-fuck,” he gasped again.

“And your cock has not even been touched, yet,” she mused. 

Goddamn it, he was going to be embarrassing himself very, very soon, he just knew it.  And like she said, she hadn’t even touched his dick, yet.  Damn it.  Once she finally did, he had no clue how he was going to control himself.  Careful not to pull away from her too far, half out of courtesy and half just not sure what she’d do to him if he backed away, he kicked his boxers off his feet, adding them to the pile of clothing littering the linoleum. 

While he hadn’t thought through every expected detail of his first time being fully undressed in front of a girl—a woman—he had thought there would maybe be some kind of comment on the quality of the view or something, some kind of reassurance that he looked good to her, that she liked it.  As she had already reminded him, Talia had seen him shirtless a bunch of times, generally when he was training, so that wasn’t a new view, but this certainly was; no one had seen him this naked since he was a toddler, and his body was obviously quite different from what it had been back then. 

“Pretty damn close,” he breathed out sharply as her toes edged closer, her eyes locked playfully on his.  It was a side of her he’d never seen before.  He could feel the flush spreading down his neck, toward his chest.

Slipping her arms around his neck, legs shifting to cinch around behind his back, she drew him close, breathing against his ear and making him shudder.  “Your bedroom would be more comfortable and fitting,” she said into his ear, “don’t you think?”

Taking the hint, he started to back away from the counter and, realizing he would need to hold on, he hesitated putting his hands on her back.  "Can I?" he checked first, unsure of his new boundaries.

Instead of answering, she took hold of his hands, an amused glint in her eyes, and pulled them around behind her, pressing them flat over her bottom, making sure his fingers curled around its curves.  Hooking her arms back around his neck, she smiled at his quickened breath, the way he held her gently.  "Hold firm, little brother," she instructed.  "I will not break."

He laughed lightly, nervously grasping hold of her and lifting her away from the counter.  She sighed, pleased it seemed, and he only blushed more deeply.

She was more solidly built than she made herself look generally, smooth muscles along her stomach, her arms sleek but strong.  She also weighed more than it would seem, but John was smart enough to keep that to himself.  Either way, he could handle it, and he headed for his room, careful not to bang her knees on the way through the door.  His elbow hit instead, and he hissed in surprise.

"Smooth, John," he muttered, sitting on the edge of his bed.

Once down, she drew his elbow up, kissing it in apology.  "I think it's sweet," she said.

"What, bumbling?"

"No," her lips pressed to his again for a moment, "that you are new for me.  I wanted you this way, John, new enough to mold, to teach properly."

"So, uhm, you're gonna teach me?" he asked, ready to be relieved that he wasn't expected to already know what to do.

"Yes."  Giving him one last peck, she scooted back to stand, though now between his knees as he sat, reversing how they were earlier.  "You have good instincts in so many ways, John," she began as she took hold of his hands, "we are going to explore those and direct them."  With that, she brought his hands up to cup the sides of her bra, pressing them into the soft flesh beneath.  He couldn't help staring, really.  The exposed skin above the sleek black material rose as she added pressure. 


	3. Chapter 3

She let him touch a few moments longer, guiding his hands down her sides, the swell of her hips, back to her chest, before reaching behind her back.  With a fluid motion and a swift click, she unhooked her bra and slid it smoothly off her shoulders, down her arms, giving him a wink he barely registered when she was fully exposed. 

Throat suddenly dry, he swallowed with effort.  "You look... beautiful," he managed.  An approving smile and a quiet thank-you were all he got before she pressed a hand to his chest, pushing him to lie back on the bed.  It was nearly with a predatory prowl that she climbed over his body as he went, and that was sexy as hell.  He couldn't help letting out a groan as he settled back, wiggling against the mattress. 

Lifting his hands to grasp her hips, Talia leaned over him, recapturing his mouth with hers, making him want to sink down into the mattress for how good it felt with her tongue slipping against his.  He could feel the press of her breasts on his chest, brushing at his nipple and making it pucker.  She must have felt it, too, because next he felt her fingers gliding over the pebbly skin, rolling the nub of it and giving it a pinch.  The gasp he let out only seemed to amuse her as she sat up, her eyes twinkling.  As she shifted, he could feel the heat of her on his dick, just the thin layer of her panties in between.  Locking eyes, she smoothly slid them off, barely lifting her body as she did, revealing a small, closely-trimmed patch of hair above smooth, pinker lips. 

If he stared, it was only natural.  She was beautiful.  Without thinking, he reached to graze his fingertips down the smooth skin, running the backs of his fingers along the outside of where he knew she opened.  He had a working knowledge of anatomy, but still didn’t know how he should touch.  _If_ he should touch.  That thought had him apologizing, withdrawing his hand, but her slender, graceful fingers took hold of his wrist, guiding it back, nodding her permission as his hand brushed against her again.  Swallowing nervously, he stroked over her skin, so smooth, so soft, marveling at it.

After letting him touch a few moments more, her fingers sliding through his hair, her breath soft above him, she pressed on his chest, pushing his back against the bed, motioning him to scoot further up.  He did, sliding until his head rested on a thin pillow.  She leaned down and his mouth was caught up in a deep kiss, another pressing to its corner before she winked at him, climbing up over his chest and then over his neck, until she was straddling his face, a mere couple of inches between them.

“I…”  He hesitated, unsure what was going to happen, not having seen this in the videos he’d watched.

“Shh,” she quieted him.  “Lick,” was the firm order that followed.

Nodding quickly, he took a nervous breath and leaned his neck so he could reach.  Flicking his tongue out to wet his lips, he hesitated again only a moment before he licked out along the smooth skin above him.  It was different from what he had expected, though he had no idea what he should expect, really.  The scent of her was going to his head, sending his blood rushing towards his dick.

“More, John,” she directed.  “Go until I say stop.”

“Y-Yes, ma’am,” he responded, running his tongue along the ridge of her skin again, the tip of it dipping past the opening as she lowered herself closer to him.  Then he tasted more, a headier, heavier flavor, and before he knew it, he was lapping his tongue more deeply between the soft lips.  Past the wet noises he was making, he could hear her moans above him, soft, contented sounds.  The deeper he licked, the more he heard her, and he let that guide him.  Until his tongue flicked against a small nub, and suddenly her fingers were tangled into his hair, tugging it sharply. 

“There, John,” she gasped, “right there.”  Her voice had a different quality to it than he’d ever heard from her, but he’d heard it in Barsad’s, when Bane would tease him.  Or at least, he’d assumed it had been teasing.  It had generally been followed by enough cursing and idle threats to convince John he was getting worked up, and he never heard those venomous words directed at Bane any other time than when he overheard them in bed.

For Talia, he took the sound as sign he was doing it right, and so he flicked his tongue there again, getting another hair-tug in response.  Curious, he ran the tip of his tongue around the nub, and Talia shuddered above him, moaning out, “Suck it,” and so he did.  Hands braced against the wall above him, her hips rocked down, grinding her against his face, making it harder to breathe but no doubt making her feel even more. 

“John,” she moaned again, her breath in rougher pants.

His hands reached up to grasp her thighs, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he shook his head, needing air.  It worked, and she lifted up, running her fingertips tenderly across his forehead as he gulped in breaths.

“Take a calming breath, John,” she instructed, and he quickly obeyed, glad for it when she lowered once more to rock against his mouth.  He let out a muffled sound, though she only seemed to like how it vibrated at her skin.  Tugs at his hair directing him, he shifted his tongue along her, back up toward the small nub she breathily referred to as her clit, and then further the other direction where it slipped inside her opening.  She hummed in approval and rocked down further, telling him to keep his tongue out, deep, that she was going to ride it, for him to fuck her with his tongue.  Just the thought had his dick harder as it lay against his stomach, and he wiggled on the sheets, running his hands over the backs of her thighs, grasping the curves of her ass when her hands directed his. 

By the time she lifted again, shifting her body back to settle over his waist, his whole face was wet from her.  It must have looked a mess, but her face held a fond expression when she looked over him, her cheeks flushed as she swiped her thumb over his slicked lips.  “You look lovely for me, little brother,” she smirked, and he blinked, surprised she would call him that right then.  With a press of her lips to his, a teasing lick against his tongue, she reached behind her to take hold of his shaft, her delicate fingers feeling much softer than his own.  “I’m going to ride you again, John,” she told him with a wink, her voice huskier, “but this time you’re going to help more.”

“Help?” he asked, unsure.

She smiled knowingly, having him sit up on the bed, his back propped against the wall.  Reaching past him to the bedside drawer, she opened it, pulling out a small foil packet that he hadn’t put there.  With a careful rip, she pulled a condom out, scooting closer again.

“I don’t have anything,” he said, confused, not even bothering to ask when she’d placed the packet in his drawer.  “I haven’t even been with anyone.”

She laughed, then, kissing his cheek before deftly sliding the rubber down onto his dick.  “No, you’re clean, John, but I still would like to keep from getting pregnant should you prove to be so virile, hmm?”

“I…”  His cheeks flushed brightly, and he could feel the flush all the way past his ears, down his neck.  “Y-Yeah,” he cleared his throat awkwardly, “yeah, that… that makes sense.”

With an amused smile and another fond look in her eyes, she then climbed back over him, a leg to either side of his, one hand braced on his shoulder and the other holding his shaft again, aiming it between her legs.  Looking into his eyes, she watched him closely, near-hungrily, as she lowered her hips.  With a gasp, he felt the heat of her touching the tip of him, how she slid him between her lips.  In a moment, he was enveloped by the smooth folds, the feel of her traveling down the length of his dick, like he could feel her all at once, shivery sensations shooting through his torso, his limbs, like he was on fire.  Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close, overwhelmed.

“T-Talia,” he stuttered out past a moan that vibrated against her neck as he nestled into it.  If he would have tried for more words, they would have come out only as gibberish.  Focusing on his breathing didn’t work, either, so he settled for holding her as she rocked down at his lap, grinding all the way to the base of his length. 

Brows knitted in the middle, he panted, mouth open, moving his head away from her neck only when slender fingers yanked at his hair, the order whispered to lean back, to let her see his face, to look into her eyes.  He did, and felt himself flush more brightly as she directed his hand to her chest, grasping over it, curling his fingers for him.  She was so soft, but firm, filling his hand’s grasp.  With his thumb brushed over her nipple, it firmed up, her breath catching, and she pressed forward, further into his hold.

“Good,” she exhaled, rocking faster, lifting herself up and dropping down again, forcing the air from his lungs at each impact not for her weight, but for how much he could _feel_.  At her groaned out direction, he slipped his other hand down between their bodies, sliding along her stomach, until his fingertips found her clit, stroking over it, rubbing firmly when she ground down at his hand.

“Yes, there,” she repeated, and in tandem with the pleased look on her face, he could feel the space around his dick tighten, constrict; it was heavenly.

Only a few moments later, he couldn’t control it; he felt his body seize and shudder, his come shooting out into the condom as his breath punched out of his lungs again. 

Talia let out a breathless chuckle, petting his hair but not slowing or stopping.  He understood, and he continued to rub at her clit, stroking over her chest, until she clamped her legs down around his, her back bowing forward, a low cry leaving her before she settled contentedly.  Leaning her forehead on his, she smiled as they both caught their breath.

“Well done, little brother,” she teased, pressing her lips to his, letting him continue the kiss for several moments before pulling back.  It was still too short, he felt like he needed her body against his longer, closer, even as she eased up off of his lap, leaving him to lean back against the wall, admiring her.

“You’re really beautiful,” he spoke softly, his mouth ticked up into a smile, just enough to feel his dimples deepen into his cheeks.

With another quiet chuckle, she stroked over his cheek.  “At least I know that’s not just your orgasm talking,” she said fondly.  “I’m going to take a shower… are you joining me, or waiting until after?”

The thought of shower sex was appealing, for sure.  In fact, the possible images of it ran through his mind rapid-fire, but he knew better.  “Oh no, no,” he refused lightly, shaking his head quickly but in good humor.  “I know how you take those.”

She only winked at him, striding into the bathroom, her hair falling and flowing over her back as she walked—a beautiful view, indeed. 

As she stepped into the shower stall, barely in his line of sight through the open bathroom door, his body instantly reprimanded him regarding his refusal, but it was easy to want to follow her when he wasn’t feeling the water, yet.  Talia did not take showers like most people; hell, neither did John, but his were probably more logical to the average person.  Instead of using warm or hot water, Talia preferred to shower in a shock of only cold.  He had asked once, when he was younger, why there was steam on the mirror after the men and he showered, but not after she did, and she had explained that though she did not fault them their indulgence, she reserved showers only for cleaning the body, and at times for refreshing the mind. 

John preferred hot, almost scalding showers with a rough scrub. The process was a bit painful, but it helped him feel alive.  Sometimes pain was the only thing that made him feel real.  He’d taken showers that way since he had been old enough to not get checked-on during baths… not that his real dad had ever checked on him in the bath.  That had mostly been social workers and foster parents who were too sensitive over the circumstances that had led him to the foster system to ever leave him truly alone.  That hadn’t lasted a long time, though; adults stopped trying too hard to spend time with him when they figured out he wasn’t going to smile and make nice.  After that, they’d avoided being alone with him when they could do it and not seem neglectful.  His real dad hadn’t been absent, but after his mom had died, things just weren’t the same at home.  There wasn’t a closeness, a connection.  What there had been were more bottles in the trashcan each morning, more phone calls in the dark hours of the night, more knocks on the door that were followed by a hushed order for John to go stay in his room until his dad came to get him. 

Looking back, there had been a lot of clues that the trouble in their lives wasn’t going to resolve in a good way.  If John had known about how life worked back then, maybe he could have convinced his dad to run, to just get out, cut his losses and start a life somewhere else, someplace far enough away that no one would ever bother coming to look for them.  But that hadn’t happened, he hadn’t known any better, and who knows what his life would have been like if he had.  Maybe his father would still be an alcoholic with a gambling problem.  Maybe he wouldn’t be happy, either, stuck taking care of him or maybe stuck with a step mother who hated him; or worse yet, ignored him.  He certainly would never have stumbled into an abandoned house in the snow or met two mercenaries that ended up raising him the rest of the way.  And he wouldn’t have met their mistress. 

Shaking his head to clear it of the old cobwebs, he scolded himself on how far his little trip down memory lane had just taken him.  He could still feel some of those old emotions, under the surface, like dust swept under the rug instead of into a dustpan to be thrown away properly.  If there was a better way to deal with his past than what he had already done, he didn’t know of it, but it was hard to feel that hurt and anger seep into what had been a mind-blowing high just a few moments before.  It made a little sense, he supposed, in a ‘what-goes-up-must-come-down’ kind of way, but he hadn’t experienced that with his own using, and he certainly hadn’t expected it to happen now at all. 

Through the haze and din of his thoughts still lingering, he heard the squeak of the knob in his shower stall as the water was turned off.  Talia was finished, and he needed to erase the evidence of his thoughts before she joined him in the room.  Standing quickly, he stepped to the mirror hung over his dresser, not a piece of furnishing he had chosen for himself but rather one left behind by previous inhabitants some time ago.  There was a haunting in his eyes that he recognized all too well. 

He scrubbed his hands over his face, succeeding in making it red, but he didn’t really look much better than before.  Trying his smile, he knew she would see right through it, and so he didn’t even bother to keep it.  Honesty was key with Talia.  He took a few deep breaths to calm himself.  He needed to be strong for her; and like she’d said, strength was how he pushed past the pain, embraced it, and incorporated it into himself.

“John?” 

He turned to see her standing in the doorway of the bathroom, dressed only in the dampened towel, her curls clinging wetly to her goose-bumped skin.  Her stance was casual, but her eyes were sharply focused on him, flaying him; he could never hope to keep up a mask in her presence.  She would always see right through him as if he were made of glass.  But it was a good thing; it kept him on his toes, aware of his own emotions and moods.  As a result, he felt stronger still, more in control, even if she wasn’t giving him direct spoken encouragement. 

Bane and Barsad taught him how to gain physical power, but Talia, his sister, taught him to build his inner strength.  She had recognized that the anger he so often felt was a part of him, not something to be cured or removed, but a cultivated thing.  He was to integrate it, to imbricate the anger and frustration and hurt in the core of his being alongside pleasure, contentment, pride and affection.  Hiding or ignoring any one of them would weaken his foundations.

And so he turned, calm, but not attempting to hide the upset he had fallen victim to.  Instead, he knew it showed through in his eyes.  “Yes, sister?” he answered as evenly as he could. 

Talia stepped over to him, her towel only loosely clutched around her lithe frame.  The swells of her breasts were visible above the soft cloth, and his eyes could not help being drawn there, admiring.  His hands twitched slightly remembering how full, firm but supple they had felt beneath his palms and fingers.  The feel of her was going to be tingling on his skin for days, he could just tell.  At least, he hoped it would be.  Reaching out, she trailed the tips of her fingers lightly down his cheek, searching his eyes with her own, seeing further into them as always.  “Your mind has fallen, again?” she questioned in the manner of one who already knows the answer that will come.  But it was still required of him to give it. 

“Yes,” he nodded, doing his best to hold her gaze, feeling himself squirm under its intensity.  “I’m sorry, sister.  But I won’t let it control me,” he added quickly, chin raised slightly in determination.

She smiled the closed-lip smile of her amusement.  “Indeed, my strong little brother.”  She allowed a nail to scrape along his skin.  “Or the pleasure I have just wrung from you would have been a waste, would it not?”

He could feel his cheeks heat up, then, and he nodded quickly.  “Yes, sister.”  And then he couldn’t stop a grin from splitting across his face, a giggle barely held in check below his throat.  His stomach tensed with the effort of curbing its spasms. 

“Oh, my little brother is still so very new,” she clicked her tongue at him, but he knew her mock disapproval from actual disappointment and admonishing.  “And what am I to do with him?” she sighed, placing her palm flat against the center of his chest, pressing him back toward the dresser.  “I can think of so many things…”  Her lips closed over his, and his head swam as she took pleasure from his mouth. 

John doubted he was going to get his turn to shower any time soon. 


	4. Chapter 4

The rooftop of John's apartment building was pretty much the same as all of the neighboring roofs; it was dirty, plain, and predominantly flat, save for the top-floor exit and some ventilation pipes.  What made his roof different, however, was the metal balcony-style chair that sat against a heating system access unit that formed a low wall in the center of the space.  A heavy length of chain had been threaded through the back of the seat and the bottom rungs of the chair's legs, securing it fast to some of the solid piping running along the access wall.  It wasn't quite enough to keep a very determined thief from swiping the chair should they want to, but it was plenty to discourage the casual thievery that resulted from leaving items unattached and unattended. 

John liked to sit atop the building on nights he was feeling closed in, antsy, inside his small, painfully empty apartment.  Being on rooftops was bittersweet.  At once it recalled that stressful chase they'd had so long ago when he had been allowed to go along with a job, and yet it also simply reminded him of them, something about being up there making him feel closer to them when they were so far away from him, out of reach.  When he had been small still, Barsad had wanted him to avoid the roofs if possible, not wanting to risk his safety, but he used them more often, now, and especially at night.

It also made for a great spot, out of the view of prying eyes, for smoking his occasional joint and, more often now, a cigarette or two.  There were several guys who worked on his floor that took smoke breaks during their lunch hour, and John had once tagged along while involved in an important discussion of the intricacies of Minecraft—though he didn’t take time playing the game, himself, he had watched his coworkers’ screens enough to hold his own in conversation.  He hadn’t realized, at first, the obvious reason for their trip outside the building, but had stood there all the same, breathing in the scent of tobacco and menthol from a cubicle-mate’s Marlboros, and suddenly he had remembered all of the things that had first drawn him to smoking to begin with.  Conveniently, every reason _not_ to smoke had left his head at the first second-hand inhale.  So he had bummed one, and then another, and then he had begun to spend his lunch hours with them instead of alone in the break room like he had previously done. 

It had taken a frighteningly short time for him to pick the habit back up, even though he had never really gotten very far into it before getting caught to begin with.  No one was there to catch him, now, though, and he let himself enjoy the warmth of the smoke filling his lungs, playing with his exhaled breath and forming delicate rings in the smoke, watching them as they floated up and away, wobbling, distorting, and finally dissolving to nothingness.  There was an elegance to the smoke that he liked, a quality he didn’t feel he had, though he sometimes tried to feign it when he was out with Talia.   

Some nights she had stayed with him, but it was just to sleep in his company, and she generally left really early; she had her own home to keep, and for him to stay there would meddle with her socialite appearances.  To avoid tabloid muddying, she had ‘officially’ sponsored him as a previously disadvantaged youth, gotten him into his job at Wayne Enterprises, and continued, as she told the press when asked, to check in on his progress, to support the rise of a promising young businessman.  John wasn’t sure he was cut out to take his alias that far, but Talia reassured him whenever he voiced his doubts; she would help him with the business world, all he had to do was be himself, be good for them. 

That was getting kind of hard when ‘they’ weren’t even around at the time.  The week had come and gone, with no word from Barsad or Bane.  Though he tried not to, knowing that they could take care of themselves, that they were stronger than him, he still worried when they had not checked in to let him know it would be a longer wait for their return.  It had been nearly a year, already, and he needed them back.  The lack was starting to ache.

Stamping out the burned-down nub of his cigarette and grinding its ash in the small tray he kept on the roof, John tapped the pack, lifting out another.  Once lit, he laid his head back against the top of the chair, letting the breath out in a steady stream of a sigh.  He could see some stars, even with the city lights turning most of the inky-blackness of space into a dull, dirty grey.  They weren’t bright, really, at least with the light pollution around him, but he watched them twinkling in and out, the blue, green and yellow hues cycling almost too fast to single out, and blew out careful rings to try to catch the dots up in their centers, making a game of it.  One managed to go straight and solid when he kept his head still enough, keeping the star in its center the whole way until if faded and disintegrated.  A small smile of satisfaction played at his lips at the accomplishment, simple though it was in the grand scheme of things.

“I see you are getting good at that,” spoke a soft voice from behind him.  “You must be getting a lot of practice, then.”

John whirled around, standing in the process and almost dropping his cigarette.  And then he did drop it as soon as he came to face the owner of the voice, running over towards the roof access door and flinging himself into Barsad’s arms, grinning like a fool.  “You’re back!” he cried out, hugging tightly around the man’s neck.  He managed to blink back a few tears of relief before they fully threatened to fall.

He was held firmly in return, though the force of his run—given that the significant bulk he had gained through his training and the last of his height had made his frame slightly larger than his dad’s—had Barsad stepping back a pace or two to compensate.  Letting out a light, muffled chuckle, he patted and rubbed at John’s back to settle him.  “Yes, Éinín,” he assured, “I am back.”  Thankfully, he didn’t seem to mind that John had no interest in or intention of letting go any time soon.  “You, however…” he began in a tone that changed John’s mind on the whole letting-go thing.

He stepped back, looking nervous despite his efforts to stay calm. “Me...?” he led.

“Yes, you.”  A curious but somehow also knowing eyebrow was raised, and Barsad pointed in the direction of the still-burning cigarette that was slowly dropping ash onto the rooftop floor.  “Been getting practice with smoke blowing, have you, little bird?”  It wasn’t clear how much reproval was behind the man’s voice, and that was far more worrying than getting an outright word of admonishment. 

“Uhm, kinda… I mean, I…” he walked over, picking up the cigarette and tapping off the ash.  Without thinking, he brought it to his lips, inhaling out of habit, and freezing when the other ruddy eyebrow rose to join its fellow.  _Shit_.  Eyes watering, he coughed as his throat burned from holding the acrid breath inside too long.  _Cigarettes aren’t weed, damn it_ , he reminded himself.  Barsad just laughed.  “Hurts,” he wheezed, choking on the last of the smoke as a tiny plume escaped his mouth. 

With a click of his tongue, Barsad stepped smoothly forward and plucked the cigarette from John’s fingers.  “I am certain it does,” he agreed without an ounce of sympathy. 

When John looked up, he stared dumbly.  Barsad was blowing out a breath of smoke.  What?  “Did you just…?” he asked, incredulous.  Though he had joined him with the weed, he’d never seen him with a regular cigarette before, especially with the lecture he had gotten for having them to begin with.  “Do you…?”

“On occasion, yes,” Barsad replied, making no motion to give it back to him.

John stared at him, still.  “But… you…”  It made no sense.

“You were far too young, John,” he explained, taking another drag before handing the cigarette back to slip it smoothly between John’s fingers.  “If you can keep it to the more rare occasion, I would not mind the indulgence.”  Well, how about that.

“…Okay…” was about all he could muster, Barsad patting his arm and picking his pocket smoothly for the soft pack and Bic, lighting one up for himself with a practiced ease.  For a moment, John’s eyes flicked to his mouth, open as he inhaled, smoke curling around his tongue.  He looked different, then, but John couldn’t pinpoint how or why, exactly, and so he shook his head to clear the odd thoughts, turning back towards his hostaged chair.  “Do you wanna sit awhile?  I mean, I’ve only got the one chair and all, but I could sit on the floor…”

Pocketing the pack, Barsad stepped closer to slip an arm around John’s waist, and John couldn’t help leaning into his familiar warmth, feeling the aches in his head and his bones easing away a little as they always did when Barsad held him close, safe.  “We can both sit on the floor, I think, together,” he amended, leading John to settle next to him with their backs against the heating access wall.  His arm remained snugly around John’s waist, slender fingers rubbing soothingly into his side and along the edge of his stomach through his clothing.  John leaned more into him, soaking up the attention and contact after so many months without anything at all from him.  After months of living in Gotham again, he finally felt at _home_.

Several minutes into the comfortable silence, Barsad spoke up again.  “Our sister has told me of your time spent together, little bird.”

John stilled against him, feeling his face heat up even though Barsad could have just meant the last few months in general, not necessarily the specifics of her having  pretty much ridden him like a pony.  He cleared his throat, eyes fixed on the stars that had shifted slightly towards the horizon’s grey in his time outside.  “I, uh… She did, huh?  L-Like what?”  _Damn it_.  So much for sounding smooth and casual.

Barsad chuckled softly beside him, the vibration tickling the back of John’s neck as he laid his head on the front of the man’s shoulder.  “She did, indeed.  She told me everything.”  _Shit_.

John gulped.  “E-Everything, huh?  I mean, like, how I’ve been doing and stuff?”  He was rather proud of his progress at Wayne Enterprises; maybe they could talk about that instead of his suddenly-existent sex life with Talia.  Maybe.  Not likely.  The hand around his waist patted his stomach, and he groaned in embarrassment, it being all too clear he knew everything.  “She told you what we did, didn’t she.”

“Aye,” Barsad breathed out along with his smoke.

“Y-yeah, uhm… that happened.”  He let out an incredibly manly giggle and yelp when Barsad’s fingers suddenly tickled over his hip.  “H-Hey!”

Barsad merely smiled, handing him back the cigarette he had dropped in his fumbling reaction to the assault on his nerves.  “I am sure you enjoyed yourself, little one,” he mused.  “Though I suppose that title is no longer appropriate?”  Taking the last drag, he flicked the spent filter into John’s ashtray, letting the smoke out in slow, lazy, perfect rings. 

John watched them as they floated up and away from where they sat.  “No, that’s okay…  I mean, that’s your thing, you know?”  He didn’t mind; it reminded him, reassured him that he was Barsad’s, that he claimed him.  It was nice to belong to someone like that, and it felt more like home than any house or apartment ever could.  He let out his own exhaled rings as he sat up a little, and noticed Barsad’s eyes on him.  “…What?”

“You know what they say about blowing smoke rings, John?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes that John hadn’t seen before.  He didn’t know how to even describe it. 

“Uh, no, what do they say?”  He tilted his head in curiosity, not sure where the conversation was going now, but noting the sudden shift.  The playful mood was still there, though to be fair, Barsad wore that affect nearly constantly.  There was something else, though, a seriousness beneath it, and John was suddenly very aware of every little response he made, both verbal and nonverbal. 

He was leveled with a smirk that rivaled a few Talia had shot at him since hiding in his apartment that night the week before.  “They say that those who are able to blow a good smoke ring must be very adept with their mouths, and therefore naturals at giving blowjobs.”  Aside from the smirk, his delivery was completely deadpan, so much so that John wasn’t entirely certain he’d heard what his ears told him he had. 

Brow furrowed as his eyes narrowed, he looked off into the cityscape view, then back to Barsad, who was still wearing the maddening smirk.  “I—”  He couldn’t seem to form any words in reply.  What exactly would one say in that kind of conversation?  He was fairly sure that most dads didn’t bring up oral sex in casual conversations with their sons, let alone _gay_ oral sex.  Oh, and that.  “Hey,” he spoke out when indignation finally rose high enough to lend strength to his voice.  “I’m not _gay_.” 

He smacked at Barsad’s chest and shoulder daringly as the man let out a belly laugh.  “I’m not!  That’s not supposed to be funny!”  Yet the man only laughed harder, and it was so sincere that even through his embarrassment, confusion and frustration, John found himself joining in it.  “I’m not, though!” he managed to get out through his chuckles, his eyes watering at the edges and stomach reminding him that laughing too hard was _work_ , and his body had settled into the idea of resting for the night.  “I fucking slept with TALIA,” he reminded to set the point.

“Oh, John,” Barsad ruffled his hair affectionately, shifting strands of it out of its tie in the process.  “No one ever assumed you were gay, little one, and it would be no bad thing if you were.”

Calming, he snorted at that.  “I know _that._   But Kojo wouldn’t let it go, and _he_ is, so I guess he just wants everyone else to be.”  It seemed a logical explanation to him, really.

Barsad’s eyebrows rose, and it was as if they shot down his logic with just that look, even before speaking.  “That is a silly thought, Éinín.  But regardless, for all that it matters, Kojo is not gay, either.”

“…He fucking kissed me.  Then argued about me being gay or not,” John pointed out.

“Did he ever say he was gay, John?”  And John had to pause at the question, think back over his memory of the kissing incident and all of their time training in the mountains.  He hadn’t seen Kojo every day or anything, but they had ended up talking a lot when he did.  Enough to find out he wasn’t a teenager like John had thought, but rather in his early twenties.  Applying that information to the incident didn’t help, so he tended to avoid thinking about it.  Still, though, that simple but major assumption had been wrong, and maybe it wasn’t the only thing about Kojo that he’d miscalculated. 

“So… he’s not?  Why the fuck did he kiss me, then?”  He really couldn’t wrap his mind around that one.

Apparently Barsad could, however, as he chuckled, giving John’s shoulder an indulgent pat before sliding his arm loosely back around his waist, not pulling him back against him yet and not even bothering to answer the question.  Instead, he asked his own.  “Do you think I am gay, John?”

It was a simple question, really.  Simple, but loaded, and he could tell that part immediately.  “W-Well… Uh…”  He cleared his throat, knowing that wording could be important if he could manage to control it instead of blurting his thoughts out like usual.  “Well, you’re with Bane… I mean, if you think I never overheard or opened the door by accident, then you’re wrong…”

Another belly laugh erupted from the man, though shorter this time, much more controlled.  “I am aware, little one… and so is he.  Your gasps were audible.” 

John felt his cheeks redden when he had been trying so hard to keep from getting overly flustered.  Keeping his hands busy to compensate, he pulled the tie from his hair, smoothing the locks Barsad’s tousle had loosened and retying it so that it held more smoothly.  Bane would no doubt tell him he was in need of a haircut when he next saw him, but he did like having it long.  “So, what… You going to tell me you’re _straight_?” he probed uncertainly.  “’Cause that’s a fucking lie.”

“Yes,” Barsad agreed with a light squeeze to John’s side, “that would be a lie.”  When John fixed him with a confused and exasperated look, he calmly continued, “In fact, I am neither of those, John.  I have never viewed the subject as so cut and dry as to be divided into two.”   The corners of his mouth tugged into his cheeks, again, then.  “Are you not aware that I am also ‘with’ Talia?  That Bane is?”

“…The fucking three of you?”  John simply hadn’t thought it was like that.  Maybe there had been signs of it, hell, maybe it was obvious and he was just oblivious, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to him.  He’d known Barsad and Bane were something of their own from very early on, and that had been that in his head, all he had needed to know at the time.  Even when Talia had first shown up, there had seemed to be a space between her and, well, everyone around her.  It hadn’t been like that, to him, though apparently he had been quite wrong.

“The three of us, fucking, yes,” Barsad replied more flatly than he would have expected.  He avoided sex talks enough that they were still a bit startling.   “Though it is much more than that, as you know.”

John nodded.  It was; the connection the three of them had with each other was deep, kind of crazy, and very much like a family.  A family that fucked, anyway.  _The family that sleeps togeth_ —No, he just couldn’t finish that thought.  They weren’t _really_ family, anyway.  It wasn’t like Barsad and Bane were _actual_ brothers, they were both in the League, and that was just one of the terms used to recognize that connection; the same with Talia and ‘sister’.  He shifted a bit against the rough rooftop floor as deftly maneuvered fingers massaged into his side, chasing away the tightness that had been steadily building back up.  “So’d you bring up blowjobs just to get that out in the open?  That you’re like… both?” he couldn’t help asking before his brain had time to inform him that there was a chance he didn’t actually want to know why the subject had been brought up.

“Not exactly,” came the reply as another hand settled around John’s waist, both taking hold to shift him so he lay back against Barsad’s chest.  He settled against him with a few wiggles to stretch his legs out more comfortably, ending up with Barsad’s on either side of him.  It worked out well that way, as he was able to be better cocooned and securely held when Barsad wrapped his arms around him.  Kissing the top of John’s head, Barsad rested his bristly cheek against it.  “I have missed my little Robin these months.”

Barsad was truly the only one he never minded calling him by his first name.  It still reminded him of his father, but not in a painful way now.  It was somehow soothing, not replacing his father, but having someone else in that space.  Closing his eyes, letting himself focus only on the comfort, John held onto the arms holding onto him, keeping them from even considering leaving him so quickly.  “I really missed you, too… Both of you…”

“But me most?”  His tone was amused, knowing.

“I…” he began, and then went for honesty, his voice quieting low.  “Yeah.  You most.”  His admission earned him a rock side to side and strokes along his stomach.  A breeze had picked up along the rooftops, but he hardly noticed it with the warmth spreading through him.  Willing the feeling to stay, he held onto those arms more firmly, clinging to them in a quiet desperation. 

They held him fast, and the wiry whiskers along Barsad’s jawline scratched at his ear as it was whispered into reassuringly.  “I am not going anywhere, Éinín.  I can hold you for as long as you need.”

John breathed a sigh in relief to hear it spoken, though he knew Barsad would take care of him when he needed him to.  Some promises did not need to be spoken to be understood, but that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate the balm the words formed.  Turning and scooting to the side a few inches, he slipped an arm around Barsad’s torso in return, his head nestled in the crook of his neck.  More warmth followed as more of him was physically connected, and he nuzzled at the man’s skin, breathing in the smell of him without fully realizing he was doing it.  Arm still wrapped around him, one of Barsad’s hands moved up to stroke across John’s cheek soothingly.  If he wasn’t careful, he was going to drop right off to sleep out on the open rooftop, and he couldn’t remember if the weather report had listed clear skies for the whole night or not. 

The humming most certainly was not going to help him stay awake. 

“Gonna fall asleep if you sing,” he yawned.  He hadn’t tested the theory, but he was fairly certain that hearing his childhood bedtime song in broad daylight while being well-rested would still put him to sleep in minutes.  And yet his warning was not heeded, and Barsad’s soft, lilting voice flowed over him as his hands rubbed more warmth into his stomach and his chest.  John shifted more. His body was beginning to grow restless the more he was touched over, but his mind was still calming, quieting with the sounds of the song.  “Nmph,” his word-forming attempt failed immediately.

“Shh,” replied the voice upon finishing the song’s second verse and chorus.  “Rest, Éinín; _codalaígí_.”  He knew by then the word meant sleep, it was part of the song, for one thing, and he’d picked up more words over the years.  And he did, even as he steadily shifted against Barsad, even as he felt his hands seemingly all over him at once, as if he were petting a skittish animal to calm it down.  “ _Mo ghrá_ ,” was the last thing he heard before his mind finally released the last of its hold on consciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

He woke up in his bed, tangled up in several blankets, but alone.  Picking his head up, he peeked at the room, noting the door ajar a couple of inches.  The bed’s second pillow was also dented in, and John knew Barsad had at least stayed the night, whether or not he was still there.  Sitting up and wiping at his eyes, he carefully extricated his legs from the layers of bedding he’d wound himself into in his sleep and headed out to the main room.  He could hear the faint sound of a hushed, accented voice, and it led him to the open fire escape window.  Outside, Barsad was just ending a call, slipping the cell phone back into his pocket and frowning, his brow creased. 

“What’s wrong?” John asked, knowing he would have heard his approach so there was no risk of startling him. 

Barsad shook his head.  “Our brother has been delayed further,” he answered quietly.  John could see the concern in his eyes, in the way his jaw flexed and twitched.  “We are not certain when he will arrive back in the city.”

He hadn’t thought about the fact that they might not have come back together.  “Is he stateside yet?”

“Not yet,” Barsad sighed, and to John’s further worry, shook a cigarette out of John’s pack from the night before and lit it up.  The man’s nerves had to be getting to him if he was smoking without John having even started it.  “There were still a couple of loose ends. “He told me to go on ahead, to come back to you before you burst,” he added with a wink meant to reassure him.  It was forced and didn’t do much of a job, though, not with how tense he’d become.  “Don’t worry, he’ll be along.”  He handed the pack to John, who wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. 

Stepping out through the window and sitting carefully on its outside edge, he lit up and savored the tingle it sent through him.  “Are you staying with me, or do you have a place already?”  He tried to keep his voice casual, but he couldn’t help hoping the answer was that Barsad would stay with him.  He had had quite enough of being on his own.  “I mean, I’ve got room, here, if you need it.”

Barsad smiled, leaning his shoulder on the wall next to him.  “Do you want me to stay here, little bird?”

“Yeah, well, you know,” he shrugged nonchalantly, looking out over the alleyway.  “Makes sense.”

“Oh, it does, does it?” Barsad returned, already amused. 

John nodded more seriously.  “Yeah.”  He received a hair ruffle, further mussing it from what sleep had already done. 

They finished smoking in silence, and spent a relaxed day in the apartment.  That is, after Barsad put him through his morning exercises.  John had taken the liberty of augmenting his routines to keep the same effects but make them feel more his own rather than a program dictated to him.  Of course Barsad had comments, suggestions for improvement, but even his corrections were welcome as opposed to the quiet of being alone in the apartment.  Barsad was still quieter than usual, however, and though they didn’t speak of it, the worry hung in the air like a fog, and John kept catching sight of him out of the corner of his eye checking his cell. 

They heard nothing all weekend, and John was back to a party of one by Sunday night when Barsad left to see Talia.  He felt more than a little awkward that he now knew exactly what was going on at Talia’s, or wherever it was they went for it, and he also felt a little jealous that Barsad was getting some and that meant John wasn’t.  That one got pushed down out of his active thoughts, however, as it had only been that one night for him, and he wasn’t really sure how to feel about being in competition with his dad over a woman.  

There were worse problems to have, of course.  The week dragged on, and though Barsad spent the nights with John, he often did not get in until the middle of them, more than once slipping in through the window in lieu of using the door.  No matter how late he arrived, John was still awake, waiting for him and his mind ablaze with any number of scenarios for why he wasn’t home yet.  It wasn’t much different of a schedule from what he had had growing up, really, but it had been so long since then, and he wasn’t going out with him on whatever job took his evening, and Bane wasn’t there to protect him.  The last was perhaps the biggest worry for John.  He knew Barsad could hold his own in a fight, but if he were too outnumbered, Bane was the brawler of the bunch.  Each time Barsad at last returned, John simply turned over and curled up next to him, close enough to leach his warmth into the night-cooled body beside him.  It earned him a strong arm wrapped snugly around his frame, and with that, he was at last able to drift off to sleep.

His work-week moved at the rate of molasses.  No gratitude was given for completing the accounts that had been heaped upon him the Friday before, of course, not that he had actually expected any.  Wednesday arrived, the week half over finally, though by then Daggett was in a mood and a half.  John did his best to steer clear of the man, which wasn’t all too hard when his loud, frustrated voice could be heard across several rooms, announcing his location like a foghorn.  The entire office felt different, actually.  Something was up, there was more hushed gossip spreading through the halls, the cubicles, and it wasn’t until John finally made it to his own that he learned what the fuss was all about.

“Hey, O’Kelley,” called out a stage whisper from the other side of the thin wall almost as soon as John had settled at his desk.  “You hear?”

Rolling his chair to the edge of the divider, just enough to lean his head and shoulders around the corner, he spotted his cubicle mate doing the same.  Maddox DeLloyd was probably the most adept at swinging news and rumors his way, and even more talented with knowing who best to release to or withhold from that information.  John had made him a ‘buddy’ early on, knowing the resource could be invaluable in his position.  There had already been a couple of times when Talia had been able to use the information he’d gleaned from Maddox.  “I heard that something was going on,” he replied, “but no, I don’t know what.  Everyone’s just saying the board meeting had some kind of upset.”

Casting his glance to the corridor and the surrounding cubicles, Maddox lowered his voice to serve John’s ears alone.  “I heard from Jessica that the board got an unexpected visitor,” he began, probably looking to draw it out for his own entertainment’s sake.  Jessica was the board secretary, and Maddox had been tapping her for information for the last year—literally and figuratively.  “Guess who?” he asked, then immediately followed it with, “You’ll never guess.”

“You’re killing me, man,” John faked his playful ‘one-of-the-boys’ smile and threw in a patient-sounding chuckle for good measure.  It didn’t take much acting to convince the guys around the office—none of them cared about their coworkers enough on a personal level to even bother trying to see through layers of bullshit like that.  It served him well.

Maddox just grinned.  “I know, right?”  It took John making a ‘hurry up’ motion with his hand to get him to continue.  “Bruce. Fucking. Wayne.”  Each word was clearly enunciated, emphasized and drawn out to seek its full effect.  Dramatic as always.

John felt his eyes widen, and sincerely.  He hadn’t been in Gotham while the media had focused on the man’s disappearance after the courthouse shooting, but Talia had filled him in on a number of important happenings that he had missed.  To make his transition into his employment smoother, she had made sure he was aware of the state the company was in due to Wayne’s absence.  As far as anyone in Gotham was concerned, Wayne was dead; it was an accepted fact, despite the lack of a body or an official death tale.  There were plenty of made-up legends, of course, as there always were when a famous person was involved. 

“Bruce _Wayne_?  What the hell is he doing, faking death for fun?”  He shook his head in disbelief.  “I bet Earle shit his pants, what with the plans he’s been making...”  Sometimes, it was necessary to lead Maddox in the right direction.

“Dude, you’ve no idea.  He about threw a legit tantrum after Wayne left the meeting.”  Maddox grinned, clearly enjoying every juicy morsel he had to deal out.  “Doesn’t make much difference, though, in the grand scheme,” he shrugged.  “Company’s going public, and not even Wayne can stop that.” 

It was true enough.  The move had been in the works for several years, now, apparently, and Earle had his ducks in a row.  Looking up suddenly, Maddox motioned for John to get back inside his cubicle, and he ducked in just in time for the floor manager to walk briskly behind their backs.  He didn’t get much chance to talk with Maddox the rest of the morning, and there was plenty of actual work to keep them both busy, despite how much time Maddox found to flirt with the female interns.

He had another run-in with Daggett just before lunch, though not directly.  On his way back from the copy room, he overheard a muffled conversation going on in one of the empty meeting rooms lining the floor’s main hall.  Though he couldn’t quite make out what was being said at first, he knew Daggett’s voice well—who didn’t, it was so distinct with its slight lisp and sputter—and he knew one of the voices was his.  The other he recognized, but couldn’t place right away.  Checking the hall for any watching eyes, he set his papers down, making a pretense of needing to retie his shoe as he listened in from just beside the doorway.  The door wasn’t latched, giving an inch or so of space, just enough to let the sound out.

“He hasn’t shown an interest in taking any sort of control,” came the unidentified voice.  It was calmer, lower-set, and softer than Daggett’s, and he imagined its owner had to possess a lot more patience, as well.  “Even before he disappeared, he hadn’t been involved.”

“Oh, right, and the first thing he does to stay uninvolved is to show up at a board meeting?  Wake up,” each of the last two words were strongly enunciated.  “Wayne’s got something going on, alright, and whatever it is, it’s going to make things messy.”  John could hear footsteps then, and prepared to finish ‘tying his shoe,’ but they receded again, and he realized it was just Daggett pacing the floor—nothing new, there.  The guy was headed for a heart attack before he could hit 40 if he kept on as stressed and high-strung as he was now.  Though if it took him out of the game, John couldn’t say he’d mind too much.  The guy really was an asshole.

“What do you want me to do?” asked the smoother voice.  It was spoken clearly, seriously, and John leaned closer to the door at sensing the dark undertones running beneath the words.  They weren’t just talking business, anymore.

“Contact him.  Find out our options,” Daggett replied impatiently.  “I wanna know what he’s prepared to do to fix this fuck-up.”

Hearing a chair slide back under the table to clunk against its edge, John quickly looped the laces of his Oxfords—a gift from Talia—and picked up his papers, managing to start down the hall just ahead of whoever had been meeting with Daggett.  He walked steadily, not so fast as to lose a chance to see who had been in the room, but not so slowly that he aroused suspicion.  No one took leisurely strolls through Wayne Enterprises, or anywhere in that section of the city, really.  Except maybe Wayne himself, if he stuck around, though John was starting to suspect it would be best for him if he didn’t. 

Keeping an eye on every reflective surface, he waited for the right angle to catch a glimpse behind him, still hearing the man’s strong, measured footfalls on the tile floor.  The chance came as one of Maddox’s favorite temps came out of an office just before the elevators.  She fully opened the lightly-tinted glass door, and as it slowly closed back behind her he focused sharply on it, catching the image of a neatly-kept man about his height.  He had on a smart suit, but even between that and his slicked-combed hair, something about him screamed that he didn’t belong there. 

Maybe it was his eyes, eyes that locked onto John’s in the same instant he looked at them, their sharp, dark cunning evident even in the reflection as it swung out of view.  Odds were, he realized, that whoever he was, he had been waiting to get a look at John, as well.  Thinking back, he wondered if he had been that obvious or if this guy was just suspicious of everyone.  He couldn’t blame him if he was, especially here of all places, and especially working with Daggett of all people.  One would have to, to keep up with all he got into. 

John kept his pace, not faltering even though his heartbeat sped up a bit, his body almost itching for a confrontation.  The office was all tension and very little release.  They even kept therapists on-staff at all times, and John knew a few team members who had needed to see them.  The one assigned to their floor was a real nut job, and John hoped they never saw a reason to send him there.  It wasn’t always voluntary; if they thought you were going to crack, you either went or you were canned.  Most went.

Though he was almost a little disappointed, it was for the best that the slicked-back man veered off as they passed the elevators, looking at John when he spared him a glance.  John gave a small, polite nod and a tug of the corner of his mouth.  He smirked inwardly, though, when he got a narrow-eyed glare before the professional returned nod.  The exchange got him a good look, though, and he imprinted the man’s face in his memory, making a mental note to do some research that night into Daggett’s business investments, who he was partnering with lately.  He already kept a closer eye on his involvements with Wayne Enterprises, for Talia’s sake, but he hadn’t been too worried about what else the guy had going on the side.  Now he might need to, though they both had to keep an eye on Wayne.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Thankfully delivering his papers correctly in his distraction, he made it back to his cubicle and was about to grab his smokes when he heard the soft clearing of a throat behind him.  Even settled into his workplace façade, he felt a grin split his face when he heard her voice. 

“How would you like to accompany me to lunch, John?” Talia’s smooth, accented voice sang in his ear.  When he turned, he found her leaning against the cubicle divider, her slight frame no threat to its—at times tenuous, at best—hold on its upright position.  She smiled the closed smile she allowed the public to see, but her eyes twinkled for him.  It was a tease and he knew it, but fuck if he cared; he was head over heels either way, he couldn’t help it.

Still grinning like an idiot until her smile turned amused, he nodded.  “I’d love to, Ms. Tate, thank you.”

“Lucky dog,” Maddox coughed into his sleeve.  He’d never made any secret about being attracted to Talia—‘Miranda,’ when he spoke of her, of course.  She found him more amusing than bothersome, though, so John didn’t worry about it, just rolled his eyes and grabbed up his jacket. 

“I’ll be back in an hour; try to stay out of trouble until then, huh?”

“What fun would trouble be without you here to be my witness, anyway, O’Kelley?”  Maddox grinned wolfishly as John and Talia walked away.

“I didn’t think you’d get time today, with everything that’s going on,” he spoke quietly as they stepped into the elevator. 

“Mm,” she hummed.  At least they had the car to themselves.  “It is quite a day, indeed.”  She hailed a cab at the street, getting one faster than he ever did.  His theory was that the cars themselves were compelled to obey her, and it probably wasn’t that far off, either. 

Their ride was quiet as usual, though he found himself watching her more than the people they passed.  They hadn’t been together again since that night, and just being close to her was incredibly distracting.  Especially when she crossed her legs, her skirt falling back from her knee a bit, showing more of her stockinged leg.  It looked so smooth, and his hands twitched in his lap. 

And then they froze when one of hers settled over them without her having even glanced in his direction.  “Calm, John,” she soothed.  He hadn’t realized his knee had been bouncing, too, until it stilled.  She spent the rest of the ride to the restaurant tapping and typing away at her Blackberry, no doubt keeping track of a dozen engagements at once.  John had no idea how she did it, honestly; it would easily drive him crazy in a day just to try.

There were some definite benefits to the life she had built, however, and one of them was being able to walk right into one of Gotham’s fanciest upscale and, if he were to be blunt, ‘snooty’ eating establishments without a reservation and gain a table in mere moments based solely on her name.  For some people, it would no doubt be fear that got them the treatment—fear of retribution in business, fear of being shut down, or fear of being blacklisted—but that wasn’t what got Miranda Tate whatever she wanted. 

Part of it was her money, of course, knowing that she was good for whatever she asked for, tipped well, and never had a card declined, but that was more than half of the city’s social elite, too, and most of them couldn’t pull the same treatment.  No, it was more about what she did with her money, the funds she raised for admirable causes, and the life she had breathed back into a lot of the city.  Between her deeds and her presence, the way she carried and conducted herself, people just seemed to feel compelled to accommodate her, to please her, to get her what she wanted.  John couldn’t blame them one bit, either.  He felt the same compulsion, had felt it the very first time he’d ever met her, despite also having been frightened and angry at the time. 

They sat together in a well-lit spot near a stunning high-floor view of the city, its bridges stretching out over the river below.  He couldn’t help watching the busy life flitting about beneath the towering skyscrapers, the cars, the people walking, the ships as they navigated the water.  There was so much _life_ in Gotham, so much happening at once, that sometimes it was almost overwhelming to have the bird’s eye view. 

“What have you heard around the offices today?” she asked as a waiter brought their salads.  It was convenient that all most people talked about in those places was business, other people, and money.  Their regular discussions remained under the radar as nothing out of the ordinary. 

He snorted quietly at the question, today, though.  “Other than ‘Bruce-Wayne-this’ and ‘Bruce-Wayne-that’?  Not too much.”  He couldn’t keep a touch of sarcasm out of his voice, and it got him a light tap to the shin from the toe of her shoe.  “Sorry,” he apologized more sincerely.  “Daggett’s on edge, more than usual, and he had a meeting today talking with some guy about Wayne.”

“Oh?”  She just kept smoothly eating her salad, as if the information didn’t interest her in the slightest, but he knew better.  It was part of the act.

“He sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place his face.  Neatly-kept, soft-spoken, real calm-like.”  He took a pause to shove some greens into his mouth.  They were bitter, full of leafy bits, and rather awful tasting, but he knew he’d get a reprimand if he didn’t eat it.  Between the three of them, if they were around, he caught hell if he didn’t eat right.

“Do you think you’ve seen or met him before?” she asked, only flicking her eyes to his briefly, casually, as she looked up to scan the room with a purse of her lips.  Her head nodded politely in acknowledgement to some socialite or business man or another as he continued.

“I don’t think I’ve seen him before, but I think I may have heard his voice, maybe talking to Daggett some other time.  It’s real distinct.”  A large swallow of water helped wash the greens down his throat, but did little to leech the bitterness from his tongue.

“I see.”

“He saw me, in the hall, after,” John explained, looking off out the windows instead of at her.  “I don’t think he knew I was listening, but he looked right at me; he’s got sharp eyes.”

Talia only nodded, visible out of the corner of his eye as he finished off the salad.  The hand resting on his leg was happy to remind him with its twitching fingers that he could be having a smoke right then.  Gulping down half the rest of his water glass, he was surprised to see her gaze focused on him when he looked back over.

“What has you so on edge, John?” was much more pointedly asked of him than her other questions.  This was personally-directed, and her attention had snapped down on it.  John couldn’t help squirming in his seat under the intensity of her scrutiny.

“Nothing,” he half-lied, twitching a reassuring smile.  Her eyes hardened, though, and he knew the fake smile had been a mistake.  “It’s nothing, really.  I’m fine.”

The look she gave him was far less than indulgent or amused, her voice a steady command.  “John.”

Letting out a sigh and sitting back in the chair, he smoothed at the wrinkles on his pants, feeling his foot tapping involuntarily.  “I, uh… heh,” he breathed out a self-deprecating laugh to get him a moment to calm his nerves.  “I guess I’m just more used to dinners.”  That part was true enough since she most often took him out after work, though they had had lunch a few times when she was between engagements.

Her gaze hadn’t softened in the slightest, even after shifting to nod to the busboy who gathered their emptied plates and refilled their water.  Why couldn’t he just keep his body still for one lunch?  She didn’t even have to say anything more; he knew full well he was expected to elaborate.

Clearing his throat, he forced his hands to remain still as they rested on his thighs. 

“I just…” Licking across his lips to wet them, he looked down at his hands, starting to pick at his nails.  So much for keeping them still.  A nervous laugh left him, and he could feel a blush spread across his cheeks, heading for his ears.

“Are your thoughts focused on our last meeting, John?” she asked patiently, and the understanding in her tone only made him flush worse.

“That’s not… I mean, it’s not that I’m not thinking about that, I can’t _not_ think about _that_ , but that wasn’t—”

Her soft chuckle cut him off, and he knew the redness to his cheeks and ears had to have spread down to his neck by then.  “I am teasing, John,” she mercifully explained.  “I know that isn’t the only thing on your mind, despite how you stared at my legs in the cab.”

_It wasn’t just your legs_ , he thought, wisely keeping the sentiment to himself.  Instead, he just nodded, letting that be the end of it.  If she wasn’t initiating anything, then nothing was happening.  The work day wasn’t over yet, either way, so he would just have to deal with the hard-on being near her was giving him, maybe take care of it in the bathroom later.

Clearing his throat, he restarted, “I’m worried about you, and them, and everything that’s going on right now with the company.  And I know I can’t know everything, but there is a lot going on, and I’ve just got this feeling that something’s going to go wrong.”  It took effort to admit the worry, to confess that he couldn’t just completely trust that it would work.

Talia’s face was not reprimanding but rather remained understanding.  “I would prefer you voice your misgivings than hide them away, little brother.  There are times they prove useful in guiding your choices.”

“Just sounds like I don’t trust you’ll get everything set and done,” he added, looking down to push the food around on his plate.  “I don’t like that.”

He finally settled his hands on the table, and her slender, graceful fingers covered his.  “We all have concerns,” she assured, “we use them to make us better.”  Patting his hand, she finished her meal, John remaining quiet as they drank tea and then caught another cab. 

“Look bright, John,” she spoke as they pulled up outside the Wayne building.  Leaning over, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips, a firmer one to his cheek, smoothing the spot with her thumb.  “Shine for me, hmm?”

He nodded, unable to help a smile at the kiss, his ears feeling warmer again from the attention.  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, knowing how it amused her.

The walk back to his cubicle was alone, but he felt better, just seeing her making the world a little brighter for the day.


	7. Chapter 7

Pressing the mute button on the remote, John turned sharply at the sound of the window scraping its tracks as it was lifted, having heard it over the din of the anchorwoman's dialogue with some field reporter.  Barsad had been back for a week, now, but had so far been staying with John in his small apartment rather than moving to a larger one in preparation for Bane’s return, which he kept promising was soon.  He hadn't been able to bring himself to ask if they were both going to be staying for good or moving out. Despite it being a bit small for three people, it would be nice to have them there, so close.  And even now, with there being only the one bed, they'd still both been sharing it.  There was no way he was going to complain about the warmth or the company; he was sleeping too soundly for that. 

"Have you seen this?" he called out quietly, pointing back towards the television broadcast.

Barsad climbed nimbly through the opening.  Reaching back through to gather his supplies from the fire escape, he didn’t respond at first, but walked over towards the couch after, resting a hand on John's shoulder and giving it a squeeze in greeting.  "Seen what, little bird?"

He pointed again.  "This sh—... uh, this stuff.  Some crazy vigilante guy's got himself a rubber suit and's swinging around the city beating up criminals," he explained, still as incredulous as he'd been when he'd first seen the initial coverage.  It had been on for hours, and he'd watched every scrap they'd shown, flicking between channels to get every angle he could.  It was fascinating, in a cracked sort of way.  And it was also just a little bit worrisome, considering his family were, in fact, criminals, if one asked the police for their opinion on the matter.  Not that he'd cared much for what the police's opinions were for most of his life; they'd never helped him out, never made anything in his life any better. 

"He's even got a _cape_... who the f—who goes around wearing a CAPE?"  It was a lot harder to curb his mouth when he was all excited over something.  The near-slips earned him a pinch to the side of his neck anyway, even if the full words hadn't come out, and he winced more at the reprimand itself than the pain. 

"I have seen it," Barsad replied, his eyes unamused when John looked up into them.  They weren't focused on John at all, but rather on the television screen, and his mouth was set in a grim line.  There was rarely so much trouble on his face.  The pinch turned to a smooth stroking at the crook of his neck, then, as he stood taking in the information silently crossing the screen, including hazy video footage. 

"You saw the footage?" he asked, for a moment unsure how Barsad would have caught the broadcast.

"No," he answered, turning away for a moment to set his supply duffle down beside the couch and close the window nearly silently.  John knew the scraping of the tracks he’d heard when he’d arrived had only been audible because he’d wanted it to be, to let John know it was only him and not a prowler.  Of course, John could handle himself against a prowler, but it had saved him the adrenaline rush preparing for a possible fight would have caused. 

"No?"

"No.  I have seen the man," Barsad clarified.

"Wait... you SAW this guy?"  His expression had to relay his incredulity, and though he probably should have curbed it when addressing him, it wasn’t as bad as with Bane, and he just couldn't help it.  This was completely new territory, since nothing like this had ever happened in Gotham.  There had been a few people who had tried to take on the mob single-handedly, sure, but they had generally been lawyer-types, and had typically found themselves dumped in the river before a day or two of real trouble was out, and none of them had worn a tricked-out rubber suit. 

And then also none of them had covered the distance this guy had supposedly covered just in one night.  There were spotty reports from all over the Narrows, and even farther into less questionable parts of the city, too, which had some reporters scratching their heads over what could be going on there.  John knew better, though.  There was plenty of dirty dealing going on all over their ‘fair city,’ even in the posh financial districts.  Corruption knew no bounds, least of all geographical.  That is, if he was actually targeting corruption or just on some kind of personal vendetta.  Or trying to get money out of it.  One of those was probably much more likely.  Still...  "Did he try to interfere?"

Possibly hearing the worry in his voice, Barsad stepped back over to him, threading his fingers through John's hair again, loose, now, since he was done at work for the day, and slipping easily through his grasp.  "Not directly," he reassured.  "He will perhaps prove to be a thorn in our sides soon enough, however."  With a firm-pressured rub, Barsad let go of his head.  "We will deal with it when it comes to that." 

John nodded, flicking the television off and pulling his legs up so he could twist his position on the couch cushions and face Barsad as the man took care of the many pouches he packed himself with whenever he went out, setting his vest aside.  "Is he someone to worry about?" he asked him quietly when the man's expression remained tight.  John watched his eyes closely.  Relaxed as their lids tended to stay, he could sense the fire inside of them when he was tense; they burned, now.

After a flickering moment, they cooled again, and Barsad reached to stroke a hand over his head, further mussing the locks he had already rifled through.  "Don't worry, little bird," he began as he stepped into the kitchen area.  He was reaching for the top cabinet, for the coffee can that made very little pretence about holding any actual coffee.  It was more of a stretch for him than it would have been for John, but he still managed gracefully.  "He will not be a problem."

Though he might have argued the point, given the tension he had returned with and the media's flurry of attentions over the matter, he couldn't help sitting up straighter, hopeful, as the can was brought down and he heard one of the baggies shifted inside.  Licking his lips, he stayed quiet, not wanting to seem too eager by asking or pushing, but he could already taste the smoke on his tongue.  Teasing like that would just be cruel.  Barsad noticed his posture as he glanced back, and John was laughed at.

"Your ears are too good, Éinín," he scolded lightly.  But he still walked back over holding a baggie with four perfectly rolled joints—John had gotten better at it with practice—and gave him a wink.  No other words were needed to be exchanged, and up to the roof they went.  It was a warm night, even with the breeze that always ruffled the rooftops.  It was a comfortable night.  They settled against the air unit's wall and lit up lazily, shoulders just barely touching as they leaned back together. 

"I didn't think it was time, yet," he risked, now that he had a lit joint physically in-hand.  Even while apart from them, he had kept to the once-a-month rule, updating Barsad with a call or a text when he’d taken out from his stash.  Of course, the cigarette smoking had been disobedient enough by itself.  "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm happy to have it, but, uh..." he trailed off, knowing he didn't need to finish, and frankly not caring to.  He was already feeling relaxed from the smoke. 

Barsad settled his hand over John's knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze.  "Enjoy it, little one." 

"Well I'm gonna enjoy it either way," he reminded, smiling probably rather cheesily.  Even then, he got a bit silly when he smoked.  Of course, every once in a while, so did Barsad.  Like now, with his hand wandering down John's thigh, warming it and making him involuntarily squirm a bit.  "What're you doing?" he couldn't help asking.

"Hmm?" was the only response he deigned to make as he stroked his fingers along John's leg, casually blowing out his smoke.

John didn’t bother pursuing it since it felt nice anyway, just smiled and leaned into him a bit more, giggling—all manly-like, of course, he claimed to himself—when he was plucked up off the floor by his waist and settled with his back against Barsad’s chest, what seemed to be his favorite position to relax in.  He’d questioned him once on how he managed to lift John from that angle, with him having grown bigger and surpassing both Barsad’s height and his bulk, but it had gotten him a cuff to the side of his head and a sharp pinch to his stomach, so he hadn’t mentioned it again.  And who cared, really, when it made him so warm, made him feel so close, so complete.  There was nothing quite like being held that way, and nothing felt quite so much like belonging. 

Though having sex with Talia had been definitely great, beyond great, a real life highlight, she wasn’t the type to hold on; she didn’t hug or cuddle like he did.  It felt more like she was pulling something from him, rather than giving.  Some people probably did both, he supposed, but at least he got what he needed.  Given the choice, well, he didn’t really want to make that choice, so he decided to just stop thinking about that.  Besides, strong, slender hands were covering and rubbing firmly at his stomach, pulling deep-seated sighs out of him.  Between the weed and that, his brain was a warm fuzz.

“Feels nice,” he practically slurred out, resting his head back against Barsad’s shoulder and taking a long, deep hit.  He couldn’t help shifting to the side a little to lean into him more, letting the smoke out just below his chin, trying at least to aim away from his face out of courtesy.

Barsad seemed to find that amusing, still, and pulled one hand from his stomach to ruffle firmly through his hair, massaging at his scalp lightly when John only curled in toward him more at the feeling. 

“Nnn… Don’t, gonna fall asleep again,” he mock-scolded.  “And I didn’t finish my joint, yet…”

“You could easily relight it later, little bird,” Barsad countered.  Taking the blunt from his lax fingers, he set it on the edge of the wall.  His own joined it after he took another hit, nearly as deep as John’s had been.  “For now, I want to hold my boy.”

A smile stretched across John’s face at that, he just couldn’t help it.  He had grown out of a lot of things, and he hadn’t called him ‘dad’ in a few years now, but it was nice to hear that kind of a claim again.  The training in the mountains had encouraged the use of the term ‘brother’ to help create a sense belonging, of family and of equality.  It was a good thing, and he’d come to use it with Barsad around Ra’s because it had gained more approval, and with both of them around other members of the league as a kind of proper etiquette, he guessed, but it had never felt like Barsad was anything less than his dad.  That would never change.

Mumbling something vaguely word-like, he nodded, resting a hand over the arm wrapped around his middle.  Shifting with a quick grunt over the effort, he lifted one leg up over Barsad’s, the back of his knee settling over the man’s thigh, taking some of the bite of the rooftop’s gravelly floor off his ass.  The move earned him a small rumble from beneath his shoulder and side as Barsad chuckled.

“Are you comfortable, Éinín?”  He felt a light brush against his temple from his beard, and he nodded, giggling a little again as he was scratched in the process.

“Tickles,” he accused half-heartedly.

“Oh, does it?”  The smirk was clear in his voice even if John couldn’t see it at the moment, and he pushed lightly at Barsad’s arm as he rubbed the wiry hairs all along John’s forehead, enough he was sure there was a good chance he’d find a brush-burn there later.  It wasn’t like it had never happened before, and he kind of liked it anyway.  Not only did it feel like a claiming mark, but it hurt just a little, the skin staying sensitive for a day, lighting up nerves whenever it was touched or brushed over by anything.  The reminder was something he held close, that Barsad would leave marks on him.  He was all his.

Quiet, soft words brushed over his ear as it was nuzzled.  “I love my boy.”

John felt his insides tighten, clench up, his hand gripping at Barsad’s arm.  Despite already knowing, despite having heard the words before and knowing they were true, he still reacted just as strongly each time he heard them, and it had been a while in between, this time.  They had been gone so long, and neither Bane nor Barsad were overly affectionate in most ways people would think… conventional.  That just made it even more special to John when he got it, though, so in a way he didn’t mind not hearing it every day, or too often in general. 

He didn’t need words to know he was loved, that he was cared for, even treasured.  “Mph,” he tried for words, having to try again before they worked.  “Love you, too.”  His nose ended up nestled against the curve of Barsad’s neck, his chin against his collarbone, and he inhaled deeply, slowly, taking in the smell of him.  There was a light cologne that he wore, a complement much more than a cloak like most applied, very subtle, but mostly he could just smell _him_.  The smell of his skin, of his sweat after a long night spent hopping rooftops, running or riding… sometimes he just liked to drink it in, to let it almost intoxicate him, to lose himself in it for a few precious moments in which he could forget the rest of the world existed because, in those moments, nothing else mattered. 


	8. Chapter 8

He was kept, he belonged, and he held on tightly to the man who had saved him, had given him back life, given him happiness that he had given up on so early.  He was his life.  Yeah, he’d do anything for him, would go wherever he said, centered his plans on his, but it was more than those things.  Barsad _was_ his life.  Without him, he wouldn’t feel _alive_.  Maybe that wasn’t the healthiest thing in the world—in fact, he was pretty damn sure it wasn’t—but it was just how he felt.  He couldn’t change that, it was a part of him the same as was his past.

Those slender fingers were stroking through his hair again, rubbing, making it hard to think clearly.  “My good boy,” their owner whispered, followed by softly-spoken words he didn’t understand.  On the one hand, he probably should have tried by then to learn more of the language Barsad always sang in and sometimes spoke in briefly, which he’d pretty much figured out as Irish even though it was never expressly stated.  Although they gave him stories when he asked pointedly about their pasts, neither Barsad nor Bane tended to speak very freely about where they first came from or how they grew up, and John figured that mattered a lot less than what they’d been through after that, what had made them who they were _now_ , so he didn’t worry about it or the exact meaning of the words.  Their feeling came through, and he kind of liked the little bit of mystery there was to them, something special, something the rest of the world around them couldn’t offer him and wouldn’t understand.

John’s fingers clasped further around Barsad’s arm even as it shifted.  Expecting his stomach to be rubbed made it take a moment for him to realize that that was not where the hand had gone.  Blinking, brow furrowing as much as his loose muscles cared to obey, he froze for a second before a gasp fell from his lips as his groin was palmed over.  “H-hey… uhm…”

“Shh, I’ve got you.”  The words were so smooth, so calming in their tone, and he was torn between the reassurance they offered and the confusion going on between his legs.  “Relax for me, John.  Does that feel nice?”  Wiry hairs were ground against his forehead again as he nodded, agreeing before he really realized just what he was agreeing with.  Realization didn’t change the fact that it felt good, but it made him uncertain.

Clearing his throat, he pushed his feet against the floor to help him sit up a bit better, though it didn’t change the pressure on his pants since Barsad’s hand just followed his movement.  “Y-yeah, but… what are you…  I mean, I know _wha_ —WHY are you…?”  Words were not listening to his commands, damnit.

Barsad chuckled at him, maddeningly.  His palm was warm, and it was managing to outline John’s cock through his pants, an outline that was rapidly shifting its position the more attention it received.  “Because it feels good for you, my boy… And because you have grown so nicely.”  The tone sounded almost admiring, and it sent a small shudder through John’s frame.

_Oh._

Maybe he finally knew why blowjobs had come up in conversation a few days ago.  And _fuck_ if that didn’t send another shudder along his body, and a rush of blood to his cheeks even as most of it seemed hell-bent on coursing straight for his dick.  And it flowed even faster as the hand over him curled just enough to wrap its warm pressure around and over the length of him, pinning him to his own stomach which rose and fell sharply with panted breaths, its muscles twitching and rolling.  If his mind had seemed fuzzy before, it was a blur of smells and sensation now.  He didn’t bother trying to keep his eyes open, there was no point.

“That’s it,” the soft voice spoke into his ear as fingers threaded through his hair to cradle his head against Barsad’s.  “I’ve got you, Éinín… Daddy’s got you.”

Oh, fuck. 

He really shouldn’t have groaned at that, but it came out all the same.  It also shouldn’t have gone right along with his dick getting harder, either, but damn if it didn’t.  That had to be some messed up shit, right there.  Except that Barsad only hummed lightly in approval, stroking over him more pointedly, more exploringly, as if he’d been waiting for John to make a sound before he continued or something.  Maybe he had been.  John couldn’t help tilting his head back when fingertips dipped down over his balls, drawing his mouth open with a moan. 

Suddenly, it was covered by Barsad’s.  The coarse hairs on his lip and chin scratched roughly over John’s face, but the lips were soft still, inviting as they pressed against his.  In the heady rush he was feeling, he didn’t even mind right away that it was Barsad’s mouth, he just needed to keep feeling it.  He kissed him back, knowing how needy it must have seemed, but unable to help it.  Cheeks and chin burning from the friction, he tilted his head more sharply to better angle his mouth, slipping his tongue over the one that pressed against his lips even as he felt the waistband of his pants delved under and a warm, firm hand wrap around his cock.  His hips bucked up into the grip, nearly making him topple over onto his side and out of Barsad’s lap with how his leg was already bent up in a strange angle.

A strong arm slipped around his middle just in time, however, abandoning hair-stroking for a firm, steadying hold.  Their mouths broke apart, still, and John’s eyes flew open as he inhaled sharply.  “I—”

“Who’s got you, John?” he was asked so softly he almost missed it over the sound of his own breathing.

“Y-you do…” he answered, holding onto Barsad’s arms, his hips shifting in rhythm with the hand that held him, ran along him from his base to his tip, feeling all over him at once.  It was overwhelming, and he could feel the stickiness against his stomach where it rubbed, knowing he was already leaking precome in his pants.

“Mhm, and who am I?”  He could tell this was important, but he could only think about so many things at once, and right now his mind was firmly settled on filling its attention with his swollen cock.  His cock which was getting gentle but firm squeezes even as it was stroked.  Apparently, he could be masturbating a lot more effectively, that or it was just automatically better when someone else did it for him.

Licking his lips and swallowing against the dryness in his mouth from breathing with it hanging open, he looked up and tried to get the answer right.  “Bars—”

“No,” he was interrupted almost immediately.  “Who am I, little bird?” 

If the pinch to the head of his dick had been meant as punishment, it wasn’t all that effective.  John let out a sharp groan, the quick motion of his hips only thrusting his length back into the warm hand’s hold, which suited him just fine.  He’d answered truthfully, but it hadn’t been correct.  Looking up into his eyes, though, those soft, almost sleepy eyes that held his, he knew then what he had been meant to say.

“…Daddy.”

Though it wasn’t wicked or mocking, it was still a smirk that spread over Barsad’s lips at hearing the word.  He held John closer, pressed his forehead to his, and his hand sped its motion, keeping an almost pulsing pressure in its grip that felt almost like he was being milked for an orgasm—which couldn’t be far off, from how each breath shook its way out of his chest.

“That’s it,” Barsad encouraged, slipping his other hand under the hem of John’s shirt to stroke across his belly more directly, warming the skin with his own.  “Daddy’s got you… Daddy’s got his boy…”

John couldn’t help it; his entire body shook as his hips spasmed, rocking his cock up sharply into Barsad’s grip as it shot against his own stomach.  He felt it in pulses that matched the stuttering jerks in his abdomen, his breath huffing staccato beats until it was done and he sank heavily against the warm body enveloping his.  Soft lips pressed firmly against his again, just for a moment, but it felt for all the world like a reward.


	9. Chapter 9

He’d gotten the text around lunchtime on Friday, but had been unable to leave the offices until his normal quitting time.  It was maddening to go through his day knowing that Bane was back, that he was home, and he could be with him if only he weren’t at work.  But to keep up his cover, his alias, his life as Jonathan O’Kelley, he had to be a good employee, a normal-looking one, had to stay in the system even as he strove, with them, to bring it to its knees.  Standing out only drew attention to him when he needed to stay in the shadows.  Most of what he did was for the sake of his double life, at least since coming back to the United States.  Gotham had seemed colder by comparison, even in the relative warmth of early spring that he’d been greeted by, and he still missed the comfort he had grown to find in the mountain snow.  Talia had to keep reminding him that crafting such a life took effort, work, and that, when the time came for its benefits to be collected, it would pay off well if handled correctly.

Glancing at the clock every moment he wasn’t typing or calling or running errands for higher-ups, John was absolutely certain that some sort of cosmic prank was being played on him as the hands seemed to slow maddeningly.  Even Maddox was busier than usual, not able to chat and help it go faster for him, since the whole company was in a flurry over Wayne’s sudden appearance, despite his apparent claims that he wasn’t going to be trying to take over or anything.  Of course, he wasn’t in a position to take over with Earle in charge, with only his name tying him officially to the business affairs, but he could still cause trouble if he tried.  Everyone was talking about it; his name came up in conversations that logically had nothing to do with him.  John supposed it was only natural when the namesake of your company suddenly appears after you’d thought them dead and gone. 

He and his cubicle mates didn’t get a chance to talk about Wayne as the day went on, but John still couldn’t get him out of his head, even with most of his mind-space occupied by the fact that Bane was back home.  It was a big change even without Wayne trying to gain power, and change was just as easily bad as it was good.  Only time would tell if his return would affect all that they were planning.  If he did end up trying to take control… No, like Maddox had said, the company would still go public, and Talia would be able to use her trusts, foundations and other assets she controlled to buy up its majority like she planned and take control.  Wayne wouldn’t stand in their way. 

Shutting down his computer for the evening, thankfully without any extra paperwork pile-ups from Daggett or any of the other office pricks with superiority complexes, he threw his coat over his shoulders, slipping a couple of folders into his bag just in case he had time to work on things later.  It wasn’t that he particularly _liked_ taking work home, but it meant he’d have fewer concerns hanging over his head during the weekend, and more time on Monday to keep an eye on things at the office.  Only a few days remained until the company went public, and every day until then was suspect.   

He spotted Maddox in the hall as he walked out—finally able to relax and leaning beside some mail-room girl or another—and gave him a friendly nod of farewell, getting his signature smirk in reply.  The guy was quite the hound, but he was harmless enough.  No one got hurt the way he worked the system, and underneath the slick charm, John believed he was a good guy.  He was the closest thing to an actual friend he allowed himself the luxury of having.  It still didn’t mean he could trust him, though. 

He’d almost forgotten, in his distraction, that he had paperwork to deliver upstairs before he left for the day.  Backtracking thankfully only a short ways, he took the elevator up to the board offices.  That was when he saw him, in person, face-to-face.

The doors opened on the 23rd floor, and there he was, Bruce-fucking-Wayne.  He gave John a closed-mouth smile and a nod, so practiced, so smooth; so fake.  John was momentarily stunned at how hollow the façade was, how there was a fire behind his eyes, even if it was being kept to low embers.  It was eerily familiar. 

Recovering as quickly as he could, he nodded, smiling in return.  There was a moment Wayne held his gaze, seeming to study him, take stock of him, his eyes staring into John’s a bit too deeply for his own comfort level.  He was looking at him like he knew him already, like he recognized him, and though that was admittedly a bit unsettling, John found that he felt it, too.  A connection…

“Uh, have a nice night, Mr. Wayne,” he managed, slipping through the doors as they started to close, holding them open for Wayne.

“You, too…” his pause was expectant, and John knew he wanted his name.  Well, okay then, couldn’t hurt anything, he supposed.

“O’Kelley.  John O’Kelley,” he answered, hesitantly shaking the hand that was surprisingly offered.

“Have a good evening, Mr. O’Kelley.”  There was a moment of sincerity in his face, something a bit more personal.  At least, it was there until someone else stepped by John and into the elevator.  Then it was as if a cloud passed over the man’s face, darkening, no, obscuring it.  Maybe cloud wasn’t right, as he didn’t look angry, but any personal, real expression was switched off even as he smiled at the woman who’d joined him. 

John quickly nodded politely to her and stepped out of the way of the doors, but he couldn’t help watching Wayne’s face as they closed.  A mask, that was much more accurate.  It was like Wayne had put on a mask, the mask of polite socialite, the mask of the billionaire, the mask to hide the fire below.  There was a twist in John’s gut as he watched, as it resonated with him.  He knew what that was like.

All the way through the offices and out to the elevated train, he still couldn’t get the encounter out of his mind.  It stuck with him, replaying in his head, tugging at his attention like he was missing something, something that was important.  _But what?_   Yeah, the guy was famous, and he was already planning to keep tabs on him for Talia, but what else could there be for him to figure out?  The story going around was that he’d been off backpacking through Europe for the past seven years, that he’d just wanted to get away from it all and see some sights in peace.  It was a plausible enough story, fitting the common history of rich people being impulsive, but maybe it should be more suspect than John had first thought.  If he hadn’t been backpacking, where _had_ he been?  What had he done for seven years?  Why did he feel the need to hide himself behind the layers of a mask?

Then it hit him.  He stopped dead in his tracks, headed down the exit stairway back to street level.  He wore a mask, he was a billionaire with nearly endless, effectively, resources. 

_What if…_  

He ran the rest of the way back to his apartment, only remembering halfway there that Bane would be home, as well, not just Barsad.  Good, he needed to talk to both of them.  

Keeping his pace all the way to his own stairwell, he started to get a little winded by the last half-flight turn in his excitement, but he made it, hastily unlocking his door and near-bursting inside.  Both men were there, poring over a bunch of papers spread out over the small kitchen table that took up most of that side of the main room.  They looked up as he entered, and Barsad tucked away a cell phone he had been tapping at when John had first looked over.

“Is this haste all for me, little one?” Bane asked, sounding amused even though John could hear in his voice how tired he was.  There were empty vials in the sink and the lingering smell of chemicals in the air, so he knew they must have freshly switched out the mask’s medication.  He’d stayed behind long enough that he would have needed at least one change since Barsad arrived, and John hoped someone had been with him to help, though he didn’t know of anyone else he trusted with it.  If it hadn’t been changed, it had to have been getting painful, not that it wasn’t always.  Bane rose up, then, and John’s mind snapped back to what he’d run home for.

“No.  I mean, yeah, I’m really fucking glad you’re back, but there’s something else, too,” he let the words out in a rush, his breathing still heavy from running so far. Leaning against the wall and closing the door finally, he held up a finger to ask for a moment. 

Barsad stacked the papers carefully, tucking them into a file folder before smiling slightly.  “Something has our boy all riled,” he teased, filling a glass with water and handing it to John.  “Drink.”

He nodded his head gratefully.  The water was cold, and it burned a bit after running, but it helped his nerves settle, regain control.  “Thanks,” he gasped a bit more steadily.

“What is the matter, then?” Bane asked, bracing his hands on the table and leaning a bit over it.  Yeah, he was definitely looking tired.

Breathing more evenly and slowly, he started again.  “I was at work, and,” he had to swallow, wetting his throat from how dry it still felt.  “And I saw… I saw Wayne.”

“Bruce Wayne?” Barsad clarified.

He nodded.  “Yeah.  He was there again, and I saw him, but that’s not,” he stopped and Barsad clasped his shoulder.

“Calm down, John…” he soothed, leaning with him.  “Breathe first.”

The breaths were probably faster than Barsad would have preferred, but he didn’t push for more when John began to speak again.  “It’s Wayne,” he announced.  “The vigilante guy… it’s Bruce-fucking-Wayne.”  For a brief moment, he worried they’d just call him crazy or foolish for leaping to conclusions, but it didn’t happen.  In fact, their expressions didn’t change at all.  “…You already fucking know that, don’t you,” he spoke out blankly.

It was Bane who nodded first in agreement.  “Yes, we know.”

“…So I’m right, though.”  His voice had finally gained stability.  “It’s him.”

“So it appears.”

“How did you find that out, John?” Barsad asked quietly, though not without a vague look like he was impressed, proud.

The look gave John’s voice more strength as he finally stood straight, running a hand through his hair to smooth its wind-tousled strands and lowering his messenger bag off of his shoulder.  “When I saw him, he just, I mean, he had this _look_ , and it reminded me of m—of a mask, the way he slipped in and out of it, and then he’s got all the money and the resources, and we know he’s got vendettas against Falcone, and this vigilante guy shows up right after Wayne comes back, and…”

Bane held up a hand to stop his rambling.  “All of this from one encounter?” he asked.

John nodded, and then shook his head the other way.  “Yeah, but no… I mean,” he sighed at the questioning eyebrow Bane fixed him with, and took a moment to collect his thoughts before he started to speak again.  “I’ve been thinking about it for the past couple of days, with him having shown up, like who could have the stuff people say he’s used, the tools, the equipment, and then there’s crossing that with the kind of person who could afford to get beat up all night and not have it affect his work, and all _that_ crossed with people that have that big of a grudge against the mob that they’d be willing to go out and fight it like that, and I figure whoever this is has got to be angry, right?  Real angry.  Angry enough to risk his life to fight for something like this.  And damn if all of that doesn’t fit Wayne.  I saw it, in his eyes, that kind of anger.  I know what that looks like.”  He’d said more than he’d meant, but it was the truth, and it was how he knew he was right.

He set the glass down in the sink, flopping down onto one of the chairs at the small table, out of breath again.  Bane laid a hand on his shoulder, giving it a pat.  “You have good instincts, John,” he spoke approvingly.  “And you have used them well.”  John practically glowed at the praise.  “However, you do not have to hide the fact that you hold the same fire within you.”

Even though it was a positive remark, he couldn’t help feeling chagrined.  His first instinct was to compensate, and he didn’t have to do that with them, shouldn’t do that with them. 

“It’s not that I’m trying to hide it, it’s just that it makes me feel out of control sometimes, like it’s just gonna burst out of me or something,” he spoke in a muffled voice, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“And what has our sister told you about those emotions, John?” Barsad softly asked him.  He never had to raise his voice to sound demanding of an answer.  Well, for that matter, neither of them did. 

“She tell you?”  He eyed him, wondering just how much of the times spent with Talia were still being shared with them.  It wasn’t as if they kept secrets from each other, but sometimes it felt like he could just tell her things more easily, like she’d just quietly listen, like she’d understand.  He didn’t see her every day, but they’d spent a lot of time together since coming back from the League, and she had become his confidant.  She had also admitted to having the same kind of fires within her.

“Yes, but we would like to hear it from you,” Bane answered, a hand resting on his shoulder again briefly.  His touch was always so warm, heavy; even when it only lasted a moment, it left its impression.  It left him shifting in his seat. 

“She told me not to discard them, not to move past them, because I can’t, it doesn’t work like that.”  He paused, and when he got a nod of confirmation from Barsad, he continued, “I’m supposed to make them a part of me, to make myself stronger by using them as a strength, not a weakness.” 

Speaking the words was like a reminder, and he found himself envisioning her eyes, hard and staring into his as she coached him to acknowledge his feelings, to name them and then to claim them as a part of himself that could not be taken away.  They were supposed to boil below the surface, they were supposed to be a part of his innermost being, and they weren’t supposed to just go away, no matter how much time had passed or how many good things happened to him.  Pain seals the soul, she had said once, hardens the spirit just as it fuels it.  He was to let go of neither as he grew into himself, but to let them grow with him, shape him even as the rest of his experiences and feelings shaped him. 

Bane nodded in approval when John looked up at him, and traced his fingertips over John’s face.  He stayed still for it, not shying away.  “And you have done well, little one, to grow as she advised you.”

Warmth spread through his stomach, his chest at hearing the approval, the pride in Bane’s voice.  He wanted to please him, for him to be proud of him like he felt Barsad was, but he knew he less often shared his feelings, and it was harder to tell what he was thinking, though that had nothing to do with the mask.  Thick fingers threaded through his hair, giving it a light tug, and the warmth spread further, hitching his breath. 

There was a chuckle beside him, and he popped open one eye, both having slid closed at the feeling of Bane massaging his scalp.  Barsad had sat, arms casually folded across his chest, his feet propped up on the edge of Bane’s chair.  He looked ready to be entertained, though by what, John wasn’t quite sure.

He didn’t get a chance to ask, though, because there were fingertips covering his lips, stroking lightly over them, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say it felt like a kiss.  Maybe he didn’t know better, after all, because Bane was watching his reactions closely.  A shiver ran through him at the look in his eyes.  His gaze was always intense, but there was something akin to possessiveness in it right then, something meant for him.  When he spoke, the hair on the back of John’s neck rose in apprehension.

“I have been informed about the welcome our brother received when he returned home,” Bane began quietly, letting his fingers linger along John’s jawline.  “Am I so different?”


	10. Chapter 10

John startled slightly at the question, not having expected it.  To be honest, he had resisted the urge to fling his arms around Bane when he’d first burst inside, knowing he was tired, probably more in pain than usual, and not as physically affectionate as Barsad.  At least, not in the same ways.  It was a surprise that not hugging him was seen as a slight.

“I… I had news, and you were busy, and you seemed tired, so…” he ran out of words, the first set having already fallen flat, faced with an amused twinkle lighting in Bane’s eyes.  “Are you just teasing me?”  He narrowed his own eyes in mock suspicion.

“Of course,” Bane replied, his voice momentarily light with amusement.  “I am also waiting patiently for my embrace, however.”

John couldn’t help grinning at that, and he stood to wrap his arms around Bane’s neck, nestling his face against his exposed skin as strong arms enveloped his sides, his waist, and large hands spread over his back.  A sigh eased out of him as he settled against him, reveling in the familiar warmth, the feel of his muscles, the strength he could feel radiating out from him.  A year was too fucking long. 

“Don’t leave me like that again, please,” he murmured against his skin, breathing in, refamiliarizing himself with the smell of him.  He hadn’t intended for the words to be spoken out loud, but they were sincere enough.

The chest beneath his own rumbled with quiet laughter.  “We did not intend to do so, little bird,” he informed him.  “Our original plans would have had us back to you within a month or two, at most.”

“So what happened?” he asked.  He knew there had been some kind of trouble, Talia and Barsad had been too tight-voiced for a while, even over the phone.  No one had explained anything, though.

A fog seemed to pass briefly over Bane’s eyes, and John looked up in time to see it, immediately letting go and shifting back a little.  He had only seen him look angry a few times, and each had been frightening even though it hadn’t been directed at him.  “Now is not the time for that story, little one,” he deflected, the cloud thankfully passing.  “But you will soon know all you need.”  John hadn’t been able to back up far to begin with, and now he was pulled close once more, pressed tightly to Bane’s chest. 

He finally felt right at feeling the strong arms holding him steady, knowing Barsad was right behind them.  They were both there for him, he finally had them both home after so long.  Bane’s grasp was almost crushing, but he didn’t mind, just let himself enjoy it, nuzzling at his skin before he knew it, and leaving a kiss there at his collarbone.  When he realized, he felt his face flush quickly.

“…Sorry…”  He cringed.  That was so stupid.

But Bane wasn’t upset.  “Why?” was his only response, his eyes watching John. 

He blinked, surprised, then took a chance and did it again, his lips lingering a moment.  Bane’s skin felt rougher than Barsad’s, thicker, like it had seen more wear.  His chest rose and fell steadily, and John found his own breath starting to match its rhythm.  When his hands were abruptly pulled down and off of Bane’s shoulders, he looked up questioningly, unsure if he’d done something wrong, after all.  Instead of chiding him, however, Bane took hold of the collar of his suit jacket, sliding it off of John’s shoulders and down his arms.  Once it was off, Bane tossed it behind John, and he heard a startled sputter as it apparently hit Barsad square in the face.

“That hardly seems polite,” Barsad exclaimed as he plucked the jacket off of his head, setting it beside him on the table.

John couldn’t help a chuckle when he looked back at the touch of indignation on Barsad’s face.

“Laughing is certainly rude, as well, Éinín,” he admonished, but it was clear he was amused enough not to care.  Even when Bane ordered John’s tie off and then that, too, was tossed at Barsad.

He felt a lot more relaxed without being restricted by the business clothing, not preferring the more formal wear, and was grateful for the change.  A large hand settled over his hair, and he could hear a reproachful click of a tongue from behind the mask. 

“Have you not cut it at all in the time we have been gone?” Bane questioned, tugging at the tie holding most of his hair in place, save for a few not-quite-long-enough locks that he kept tucked behind his ears most of the time to keep them out of his face.

“Well, yeah… I mean, I trimmed it here and there… Is it bad?”

Bane seemed to consider it for a few moments, eyeing him and how the hair sat more loosely.  “For now, it is fine.”  John felt a bit of relief, hearing it.  He liked the hair how it was, it felt good, but he didn’t want to displease Bane, and would have of course cut it if that had been what was asked of him.  Releasing his hair, Bane’s hands travelled down his back, warming him, easing tension in John’s muscles as he leaned his body into Bane’s. 

His eyes widened suddenly as he felt a set of fingers slip below his waist, taking a light at first and then a rather firm, possessive hold on his bottom.  Trying for words, he found that only a squeaking sound escaped his throat, earning a hearty laugh from the table behind them.

“Shut up,” he snapped, embarrassed, and got himself—of all things—a spank.  Staring, mouth open, he had no idea what to say to that. 

“Your manners appear to have slipped, John,” Bane spoke as he rested his hand back down against John’s pants.  John couldn’t help shifting, and he felt the grip tighten as he did so.

“I… uhm…”

“We will have to remedy that,” promised the firm voice.  “But for now… what greeting have I earned, my little bird, hmm?”  Bane was watching his eyes, but he also saw him looking over John’s body with a look in his eyes similar to Barsad’s when he’d—Oh.  Oh, damn.

“Y—…Uhm, w-well, what did you want…?”  Cringing, he regretted his wording the second it left his mouth.  It sounded way too cheeky, left options way too open, and he had no idea what Bane might reply with since he had apparently missed any and all clues in the last however long that both of his dads actually wanted to touch him like that. 

It’d be messed up if they were blood, he told himself, but it hadn’t felt wrong when Barsad had stroked him off the other night on the rooftop.  Instead, something had felt very right even as he’d hesitated, been unsure, like it was supposed to have happened, like he was meant to be held like that by him.  He could still feel it, lingering, and couldn’t help wondering if Bane would feel the same or not.

In reply, the thumb of Bane’s free hand rubbed over John’s mouth in a firm stroke, outlining his lips before the bottom one was pinched between the thumb and his forefinger.

“Ow,” he complained mildly, shifting back a little but unable to go anywhere with a grip still on his ass.

“Our bird has such a mouth attached to him,” Bane spoke quietly, more affectionately than scoldingly, the pad of his thumb swiping once more, as if to soothe.  “Perhaps he should learn to put it to better use…”  John didn’t know if he should be concerned by the look in Bane’s eyes.

“To… better use?”

Barsad snickered behind him, winking when John glanced back to him.  “An innocent little Robin, still,” he teased through a smile.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, starting to feel a bit defensive despite not understanding.  Sometimes it was just clear that jokes were being made at one’s own expense.

“Our brother has other uses in mind for your mouth than talking, John… And I think you would be quite adept, given your talent for smoke rings…”  He let it trail off there, his eyes twinkling in self-amusement, and John finally understood.

“What?!” he gaped at Barsad.  “What the fuck.  No, he—” But he didn’t get a chance to finish, as a swift smack came down on his ass.  “Ow, hey!” he protested, pushing against Bane’s chest.  It was a stupid move, and he knew it, but it was more of a reflex than a conscious decision.  Even so, it earned him another smack.  “C’mon, really?” he questioned as he squirmed to get out of Bane’s grasp.  He was way too fucking old for spankings, and they’d really never been the butt-smacking type of disciplinarians to begin with.  He heard the reproachful clicking of Barsad’s tongue from behind him, but fuck him right now, he wasn’t helping.

“Are you ready to curb your wayward tongue, now, John?”  Bane’s eyes had gone a bit darker, his body tensed, ready.  Now was not the time to test him, not the time to push, but he was way out of his element, especially as he felt his shirt tails starting to be tugged out of the waist of his slacks, and he instinctively grabbed at the material.

“Hey…”  His breath had sped up, and he could already feel himself hardening in his pants, which made no sense whatsoever.  God, he’d get hard at just about anything, apparently. 

“Hold still,” Bane ordered, pulling his shirt fully untucked.  He couldn’t make himself listen until thick fingers worked at his belt, unbuckling it and starting to slide it out of the loops even as Bane’s eyes held his steadily.  Then he froze as it was gathered in his hands, held in a way he’d seen foster parents grasp belts right before they used them as a teaching tool…  Jesus Christ, if Bane was going to wield his own belt against him, he was going to do some real damage.

A chuckle issued from behind the mask when John’s body stiffened.  “Do you think I intend to beat you, John?” he asked, setting the belt aside and cupping John’s cheek.  The contact was light, gentle, and just that was enough to start calming him for the moment, allowing him to take a breath.  His chin was lifted, then, and he met Bane’s eyes after having looked away from them, but he was still seeing more memory than the present. 

From what he’d heard as a kid, most foster parents found ways of punishing without leaving marks on the kids.  Some he’d ended up with hadn’t seemed to care if they did or didn’t.  It had worked out for them that John had ended up in enough fights and scrapes that anything they’d left could be blamed on him, if anyone even asked, which they never had.  Who would have believed a little kid over an adult, anyway?  Let alone a bitter, angry kid who everyone knew had “issues.”  He still saw it clearly in his mind, felt the sharp sting, the anger welling up inside of him.  It returned, even then, even after all those years, flashing through his eyes as Bane stared down at him.  But he couldn’t control it, wasn’t feeling his adult self, only the past, and Bane didn’t look like Bane in that moment, just like every adult who had ever let him down when he was a kid. 

So when a hand covered his shoulder, he lashed out, slapping it away with a snarled growl as the rest of his body thrashed in the solid hold in which it suddenly found itself.  “No!” he yelled, struggling while sinking to the floor, his arms pinned to his sides, a strong hand grasping his hair and giving it a short, sharp tug meant to bring him back to his senses.  It worked, mostly.

“John.”  His name was spoken more sharply than his hair had been tugged, and directly into his ear.  “John, stop,” came the slightly more gentle appeal.  He knew the voice, and it didn’t belong to his memories, not a foster parent or a teacher, or any of the kids who’d picked fights with him.  It took a few more moments for his mind to work through the fog that had fallen over it, but he finally knew the voice’s owner.  Barsad.

Gasping, he gulped in air to fill his tightened chest.  He was okay, he wasn’t going to get hurt, and he wasn’t powerless anymore.  “I-I’m… I’m sorry,” he choked out.  The grip on his hair relaxed, though a strong set of arms still clutched his middle.

“Are you alright, Éinín?” he was asked quietly, Barsad’s voice filled with understanding.  The quality of it stung worse than his embarrassment.  It wasn’t the first time he’d lashed out at one of them because he was seeing things that weren’t even happening anymore, but it hadn’t happened since his time with the League—it was, he’d hoped, a thing of the past.  They’d told him it wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t make him feel any less rotten over it.  He should never attack them, no matter what issues he had going on inside of his fucked-up head. 

“Yeah,” he answered, shaking his head as if it could clear it of old cobwebs.  “I’m okay.”  He couldn’t bring himself to look at either of them in the quiet moment.  Lashing out was something a kid did, and he was no longer a kid.  Though the heat of childish anger was beginning to dissipate, he still felt angry with himself over his behavior.  When Barsad at last released his arms, he scrubbed over his face with his hands, sitting down on the floor from having been dropped to his knees.

“Éinín,” he was called softly, and it was repeated when he didn’t look up at first.  Finally meeting Barsad’s eyes, eyes filled with a kind of patience he had never deserved, least of all now, he stayed still as his cheek was touched over, cupped by slender fingers.  “You have nothing to feel ashamed of,” he began, and John felt a shiver run through his body.  Nothing stayed hidden from them for long. 

“Do-fucking-too,” he retorted, wincing at the cuff to the side of his head from Bane; his brace hand, too, adding a more solid contact to the hit.  “….M’sorry.”  Breathing in measured pulls, he willed his core to calm, to not let himself be overcome by the feelings of failure and inadequacy.  Though he had never truly voiced them, not in full, he knew his family would only speak against them, try to fight through them, and he couldn’t deal with that right then.  In truth, he didn’t want to deal with that at all, ever.  No matter how negative or corrosive they were, those feelings sat at the center of his being, and he clutched them close, owned them even as Talia had instructed him to own his anger.  Even she didn’t really know about these, though. 

Barsad made a quiet noise in his throat as he considered John.  “Perhaps lessons can wait for the moment?”  Though his eyes were on John, the question was directed at Bane, asking permission.  It was only on occasion that Barsad went around or against Bane’s word or design.

“Hmm.”  Bane considered the change, sifting through John’s hair, rubbing at his scalp.  It muddled his thoughts, eased his eyes closed as he leaned into the touch, but it felt good and it soothed some of the pain brought on by his panic.  “I do not wish for the correction to be too far from the slight, lest it not have its impact,” Bane finally answered, giving a small tug to John’s hair.  It didn’t hurt, it was just enough to give emphasis to his point.  “He needs to learn once more.”

Of course Barsad nodded in agreement.  But then he smirked, grasping John’s chin and leaning in to kiss him firmly, his quick tongue slipping right into John’s mouth to slide against his.  It was more open-mouthed than the other time, and John had the sudden sense of being on display, that Barsad was putting on a show for Bane.  He felt his cheeks heat up as he returned the kiss.  Even if he was making a show, it felt too good to think of stopping.  He felt better than Kojo, better than any girl he’d managed to kiss, and hell, he even felt better than Talia, though fuck if John was going to tell _her_ that.  It would be better not to mention it to Barsad, ether, because he’d probably just tell her, and it’d make him insufferably smug, either way. 

He enjoyed the feeling a bit longer before he pulled back to breathe better.  “Fuck,” he breathed out as his eyes slowly opened once again.  There was a displeased sound from beside and above them, and John hissed as his rump was kicked swiftly, though not with enough power to send him sprawling.  “Sorry…” he repeated, “it’s just, well, the guys at work all swear a lot and I’ve just gotten used to doing it more from hanging out with them to keep in good there…”  It wasn’t the best reason, truly.  He risked a glance up, and Bane’s eyes held a threat of disappointment in their blue-green depths.  It made John’s stomach twist at the sight of it, stinging more sharply than any cuff, kick or hair tug he’d received in reprimand. 

“And is our boy truly so malleable as to change himself with whomever he is accompanying, but so uncontrolled as to be unable to return to his training and his lessons once away from their influences?”  He was baiting him, but John couldn’t help feeling the sincere burn still evident in the words.  The question was still serious, and it hardened his resolve even as it pained him.

“No,” he replied firmly.  “I have more control than that.”  Raising his chin, he sat up straighter, squaring his shoulders.  He was not going to let them think he’d grown weak since they’d been gone, even if the time had nearly broken his heart at being so far away.

“Better,” Bane approved, sitting down again with a grunt.  “Show me.”  Confused, John was about to ask what he meant when Bane calmly unfastened his pants, opening the zipper and working his cock out into view, half hard and starting to stand a bit proudly for it.  It looked thicker than John would have thought, not that he’d given any thought to what Bane’s erection would look like, or even Barsad’s for that matter, but he’d seen them naked before, just, without hard-ons.  He must add on girth when he got hard, it seemed.  That was, however, on a list of things he probably shouldn’t be contemplating so casually inside his mind.

“Uhm,” he paused to swallow past the lump that was rising in his throat, wiping his suddenly sweaty palms onto his pants.  He hadn’t yet been able to take his eyes from Bane.  _Look away, damnit,_ he scolded himself, _you’re not gay_.  Having to clear his throat, he at last got out, and with barely any squeak to his voice, “What… do you want me to do?”


	11. Chapter 11

Seeming all too eager to answer, Barsad piped up, “Allow me to demonstrate, brother?”  Looking up at Bane, he waited until he received a nod before shooting a wink at John, moving to his knees and easing Bane’s leg out to the side so he could move up in between the two.  John couldn’t help staring even before he was ordered to watch, and to watch closely; ordered to learn.  _Shit_.

Eyes widening, he watched as Barsad’s graceful fingers slipped around the shaft of Bane’s cock, holding it upright as he flicked his tongue out teasingly at its tip.  Bane wasn’t cut, and John found himself slightly fascinated by the way he looked when Barsad eased his foreskin down, exposing the head, and then played with it a bit as another tease.  When he ran his tongue to dip underneath, between the folds of skin and the more sensitive tip, John heard Bane’s breathing get heavier, and he noticed his own dick nearly jump in his pants.  Bane’s eyes closed for a moment, and then he watched John, his eyes looking clouded over as Barsad took him into his mouth.

Fuck, that looked really good.  _Not gay_.  But damn, why did it have to look so damn sexy for Barsad to suck Bane’s cock into his mouth?  And the slurping sound, the shine of his spit along Bane’s skin, goddamn; it was enough to make John squirm, his pants feeling too tight on his dick, too constricting as he grew harder inside of the material.  Barsad’s head was bobbing now, getting Bane’s skin wetter, and his fingers were gripping around the base of him, stroking their tips along him, pulling groans from beneath the mask, deep in his throat.  It really shouldn’t have been turning John on so much, but damn if it wasn’t.  When his eyes shot over to John, not stopping and possibly slurping much more purposefully, John couldn’t help an audible moan.  He froze when it came out, feeling his face flush pink with heat, though Bane chuckled as he watched him. 

“He is pleasant to watch, little bird, is he not?”  Bane’s voice was sounding slightly huskier from arousal.

Swallowing to wet his throat, dried out from panting, John nodded.  “I uh, y-yeah.  He is.”  He swore he saw Barsad smirk even with his lips wrapped around a cock.  Always so smug; though John guessed he had a right to be, could back it up.  “Shut up,” he retorted anyway, even though Barsad hadn’t actually spoken. 

Directly after, he gasped as a bare foot snaked out to the side, its toes rather invasively brushing over his crotch.  “N-not fair,” he stuttered.  Naturally, his protest did nothing.  Barsad managed to stay balanced mostly on just one knee, stroking and sucking at Bane while feeling up John with the other foot.  It would have impressed him if he’d had the presence of mind to be able to process any more than the toes somehow expertly and accurately outlining the steadily shifting shaft of his dick.

“As lovely as that is to watch, brother,” Bane interrupted, his hand having come to rest with his fingers threaded through Barsad’s hair.  “He will surely be too distracted to learn, should you continue.”  His tone was light, teasing, but the warning was taken sincerely all the same, Barsad’s foot leaving its place between John’s legs, and what had been a very pleasant pressure leaving his cock.  He had to shift his position to compensate for the loss, tugging his slacks a bit where the material was too tight against him.  Really, he’d be a lot more comfortable if he just took them off, but he didn’t think that was a message he wanted to be sending at the moment.  At least, he thought he didn’t.  Probably not.  Yeah, definitely not.  The wrong message, absolutely. 

He heard his own quiet groan, and he knew he was lying to himself.  Though he wasn’t quite sure how that message would be interpreted by them, he would just have to find out after it happened because it was too hot and tight to stay in those stupid pants for one more moment.  Fumbling in his worked-up haste, he lifted his ass off the floor long enough to slide the slacks down and under it, off his legs, and tossed them aside, breathing a sigh of relief as the pressure and awkward constraint was taken away.  Of course, his dick appreciated the ability to spring right up to full attention, tenting his boxer shorts with a terribly obvious bulge.  He’d just put _himself_ on display, and he knew it, but it couldn’t he helped, and damn, it felt so much better. 

Bane was eyeing him, still.  “Come closer,” he beckoned, motioning with his fingers even as the ones on his other hand gripped at Barsad’s scalp.  John wasn’t entirely sure the other man’s motions were still being performed for his benefit or if he’d just gotten too into enjoying himself to worry about showing off for John.

Hesitating a moment, John moved closer to Bane’s side, up on his knees. Bane’s hand reached out to cup his cheek, his thumb resting against his lips.  He could feel his stomach flip-flop at the touch. 

Holding his gaze, Bane pressed at the opening of his lips.  “Practice,” he commanded.  What the fuck was that supposed to—oh.

“I-I don’t…” he started to protest, but found that only got the thick, blunt thumb pushed right into his mouth as it opened, resting heavily on his tongue.  He froze for a moment, and then flicked his eyes to Barsad who was rather showily putting his own tongue to use.  Right.  Practice.  He gulped, tentatively giving Bane’s thumb pad a lick, getting an approving nod.  So he did it again, and then again, and it only took a moment to realize he was getting even more turned on just from licking at a thumb in his mouth; how much sense did _that_ make?  None, probably. 

Bane looked amused, shifting his thumb as John rolled his tongue over it, around it, and it was pinned to his teeth here and there.  He reddened a little when Barsad chuckled at him, and Bane’s fingers stroked across his cheek.  “You look lovely this way, as well, little bird.”  There was the same fondness in his eyes as ever, like nothing had changed in all the years they’d been a family, even though nearly everything had just since Barsad had come back stateside, and since he’d arrived back at the apartment that day. 

Barsad pulled back from Bane finally, pressing a wet kiss to the tip of him and shifting his hand to cover more of his length, probably to compensate for the warmth.  Bane let out a seemingly impatient sound anyway, but Barsad just winked at him as cheekily as ever.  John had seen lots of people interact with Bane over the years, but no one got away with the things Barsad did on a regular basis.  Directing his attention to John, Barsad nodded his head at Bane’s hand.  “Give it a little suck, John,” he instructed, his voice just slightly hoarse, adding to its usual scratch.

John did, and he found it all too natural feeling to continue to do so, to swirl his tongue around the thumb in his mouth, to slide his lips along the skin.  Bane certainly looked pleased, and Barsad smirked, though not at John’s expense this time, he could tell.

“I told you our boy would be a natural,” he spoke to Bane, still stroking along his cock.  “It’s as if he were born to have things in his mouth, isn’t it?”

John pulled back at that, unable to help feeling a little freaked out by that pronouncement.  Born to suck on things?  He really didn’t know how to take that.

Undeterred, Bane just stroked his wetted thumb over John’s lips, tracing them with a light pressure.  “Are you ready to try again, little one?” he asked, and though it wasn’t stated, John instinctively knew that ‘trying again’ didn’t mean having a thumb or finger back in his mouth; it meant giving Bane’s dick a suck.  That should have sounded a lot less exciting than it did, he was sure of it, but damn.  He couldn’t help staring a bit at Barsad’s hand, at Bane.

“Go ahead, Éinín,” Barsad encouraged when he hesitated, holding Bane back up like he was keeping him steady for him.  Maybe he planned to do exactly that. 

“Uhm…”  He tried to think of something, anything, to stall a little while he built up the courage, but nothing was coming to him.  As if sensing it, Barsad motioned him closer, and when John leaned, his mouth was caught up in a much more forceful, and if he didn’t know better, he’d have said more passionate, kiss.  It frankly took his breath away.  He felt owned, possessed, like even his mouth belonged to Barsad, and it spread a warmth through his stomach to know that it was a true feeling as well as a strong one.  Soon he felt overwhelmed, the sensation too much, his body reacting too quickly, and he pulled away.  Of course, that hadn’t been the best idea when his bottom lip had just been caught by worrying teeth, and it was tugged at for his trouble.  He hissed in complaint, touching his fingers to the offended skin, coming away with a little bit of red spread over their tips.  “Ah, c’mon…”  

Barsad just licked his lips.  Bane pressed his thumb over his now slightly-swollen lip, and John hissed again.  “It is only a little color, little one,” he rumbled in amusement.  His breath was still a little quicker than normal and John’s attention was brought back to the task set before him.

Yeah, that.  Flicking his tongue out over his lip, he let himself be guided to the other side of Bane’s thigh so he was between them.  A look to Barsad got him an encouraging nod, and he took a breath before ducking down to hesitantly but curiously flick his tongue out and over the tip of Bane’s cock.  He knew what to expect, at least a little, having been curious enough to taste his own precome and jizz before, but it was still a little different than he’d expected, heavier, maybe.  Maybe everyone tasted just a little bit different there.  He immediately found himself wondering what Barsad must taste like, and his face flushed all over again.  It seemed determined to stay red.

At least Bane’s soft moan of encouragement took his attentions off his embarrassment, and he found himself licking over him more, gathering the small beads that formed as they appeared.  He tasted really good, salty and musky, and it made him want more.  In a moment of bravery, he slipped his lips around the tip, letting them push the foreskin back out of the way, and enjoyed the slight stretch he felt to his mouth.  He’d kind of assumed it would feel more invasive than pleasant, and was relieved when he was wrong. 

Before he knew it, he had more of Bane’s shaft sliding into his mouth, and soon he was resting heavily on his tongue, the salty drops depositing there directly, now.  The flavor spurred him on, and he shifted his tongue against the folds of skin, carefully breathing through his nose, unsure if he’d have a gag reflex issue or not.  He’d never had something big enough in his mouth to know for sure.

With enough on his tongue, he swallowed at the precome, eyes widening at his own stupidity when the suction only pulled Bane a lot further into his mouth.  It wasn’t choking him, but the tip bumped the back of his mouth and he reflexively yanked his head back, barely managing to keep his teeth from catching on his skin as he did.  “Damnit,” he half-coughed just from the surprise.  “Sorry…”  Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure if he was apologizing more for the swearing or for tugging away, for doing it wrong.  Bane’s hand rose, and John steeled himself for a cuff, but instead his hair was rifled through much more affectionately than he’d expected.

“Take your time, John,” he told him.  “It is not a thing to rush.”

John nodded, regaining his composure and steady breathing before he leaned back down, happy to taste him again.  He could see himself getting used to it quickly… if he was doing it well enough that they wanted him to do it again, of course.  He hoped he was.  Though from the sounds he was getting from Bane’s throat, even quiet as they were, he guessed maybe he was. 

“I told you our boy would be a natural, did I not?”  There was a smirk in Barsad’s voice, but there was also a measure of pride that John couldn’t ignore.  That pride, of course, was evidence that they spoke about him and sex, him and blowjobs, him and blowing _them_ when John wasn’t around, but he’d deal with that part later.  At the moment, he was content with the pride.  “How does he feel?”  Damnit, they were going to evaluate him _now_?  How the hell was he supposed to not feel self-conscious, to concentrate, if they were going to judge his cock-sucking _while_ he was doing it?  He let out what he hoped came across as an only mildly annoyed sound, and was met with Barsad’s sincere laughter. 

“Oh, Éinín, I’m certain you’re doing quite well.”

“Indeed, he is,” Bane agreed, the low rumble of his voice vibrating his stomach under John’s touch.  He’d hesitated to rest his hand on him, but it helped balance him, and it grounded him.  With the endorsement from them both, he felt relief at first, and then a sense of satisfaction. 

His fingers shook slightly on Bane’s shirt, and they were quickly grabbed up by Barsad, given a squeeze, and then guided to where he held onto Bane’s cock, moving John’s fingers to lace with his own.  It felt really strange to be holding someone else’s dick, but he supposed if he could suck it he could hold it.  It felt warm, weighty, a lot like his own except thicker around, but that made sense.  After a couple of moments, he noticed Barsad’s hand slowly retracting, his fingers sliding out from between John’s, leaving him with the sole grip on Bane, responsible for holding him steady, though honestly he was doing a marvelous job of remaining steady all on his own.  Still, it seemed bad etiquette to just let go, so he held him, fingers still trembling here and there as he kept his tongue moving along his cock, much more carefully swallowing the drops of precome as they gathered.  He managed not to choke himself this time at least, so there was that.  It felt like he was just making the same motions over and over and that that had to be getting boring for Bane, but his breathing remained heavy, loud through the mask, and he still let out a few groans as John worked. 

Bending down next to John’s ear, Barsad whispered encouragements into it—that he was doing so well, he was a natural, he should stroke his fingers over Bane’s cock, he should suck him more, yes, that was it, just like that, what a good and brilliant boy he was, their perfect boy, their beautiful boy.  His hair was stroked over lightly as he sucked and stroked at Bane, feeling a heady rush the more he got into it.  There were more frequent sounds from the mask now, grunts and moans, and his hand joined Barsad’s on John’s head, not pushing or pulling but grasping at his hair.  With an uncertain start, John realized he had to be getting close to blowing off.  And… where would that be going when he did?  Fuck.  He knew the answer immediately, and it had him pulling away again.  So much for etiquette.

“Uhm… Y-you’re sounding like you’re going to shoot soon… are you?”  Smooth, John, smooth.  Looking up hesitantly, he kept his hold on him, figuring it was the least he could do.  He’d never had his dick sucked, but going from warmth to cold was never too pleasant.

Opening his eyes that had apparently closed, Bane peered down at him with them half-lidded, a look much less common on his face than on Barsad’s, his eyes always looking alert, watchful, if he was awake.  “Yes, little one,” he confirmed, his voice thick.

“What, uhm,” how exactly did one ask what to do with a load of jizz without sounding rude or completely inexperience—well, fuck it, he _was_ , and they knew that, anyway.  “What do you want me to do with it?” he forced out, ready to accept any reprimand or tease they would respond with.  Instead, he got a nod of approval.  He’d seen enough porn to know what he _could_ do with it, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to, though he liked the taste well enough, so far.

“You could swallow it, or spit it into the sink, if you like,” Bane told him, looking the kind of amused that was slightly at John’s expense.  He didn’t really mind, though.

“Okay…”  Maybe he could decide which he’d do when it happened.  Ducking back down, he held Bane steady still as he sucked him back into his mouth a little too quickly, though he managed to compensate enough not to feel like he was going to choke this time. 

“Good…”  Barsad continued to encourage him as he continued. 

He stretched his lips and worked him into his mouth until the tip nearly bumped the back of his throat again, paying attention this time and drawing back then, repeating it and making the bobbing motion he’d seen Barsad make and, well, that he’d seen plenty of times in videos.  Working his fingers over the heated skin around the base of him, John could feel small twitches against his mouth as Bane got closer to shooting off, could hear more hitches in his breath and how it quickened more.  Well, it wasn’t like _a lot_ came out, right? he thought to himself.  Maybe he’d be fine swallowing it.  He realized with a mental snort that he hadn’t been given an option where Bane _didn’t_ come in his mouth, but he wasn’t going to be a baby and complain about it.

Barsad’s fingers touched lightly over the back of John’s neck.  “He is nearly there, John…”  The lips that suddenly rubbed over his ear were really distracting, especially so when they pressed against the skin just behind it.  A shiver ran through him at the feather-light touch, how he somehow managed to keep his beard from scraping the skin of his ear, from even catching in John’s hair.

There was a grunt above him, a set of powerful fingers grasping almost painfully at his hair, a tightening of the muscles in Bane’s stomach and thighs, and suddenly hot liquid was squirting sharply and straight at the back of John’s throat, and he immediately understood why anyone could choke on come no matter how little of a volume it actually amounted to.  His head jerked back before he could stop it, letting go of Bane, getting quite a yank to his hair before it was released, and the last bit he let out ended up splattering unceremoniously onto John’s nose and cheek.  Smooth, John, so smooth. 


	12. Chapter 12

Naturally, Barsad laughed at him.  “Did any of it go in, John?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Yes,” he answered defensively, swallowing the bit that had. 

Keeping a smirk, Barsad swiped a finger at the line over his nose and cheek, holding it up for John’s inspection before popping it into John’s mouth.  “Pity to waste, isn’t it?”  It was said innocently, but there was absolutely nothing innocent about the way he rocked his finger in and out slowly, suggestively.  He licked over it, liking the taste, anyway.  “Time for round two then, little bird,” he announced as he pulled his hand away. 

“Round… two?”  Stupid question, really; the only answer it got was the sound of Barsad’s zipper being opened.  He stared a bit at the fluid motion that had Barsad’s cock out and exposed in the blink of an eye. 

Leisurely tucking himself back into his pants, Bane chuckled at John and settled against the back of his chair to watch.  He got one last ruffle through his hair before Bane rested his arms, his thumbs hanging on the top edge of his back’s brace.

Barsad didn’t look quite as thick as Bane, but John purposefully held back from flicking his eyes between them when he had the chance, knowing he certainly wouldn’t want anyone contrasting and comparing his dick with another guy’s, even if they were together.  Barsad got up off the floor, standing next to Bane with an elbow casually leaned on his shoulder.  “Come show me what you’ve learned,” he teased.

Half-teased, half-challenged, that is.  Glancing behind him, he found himself regretting having put his glass away in the sink; his mouth could definitely have used a good gulp or two of water at the moment.  If he got up to get a drink, there was a chance his nerves would come back, so maybe it was better to just keep going.  He swallowed carefully, sliding around Bane’s leg to get to Barsad and just kind of staying there, kneeling in front of him, nervous to start, even without getting up and getting that drink.

“It will not bite, little one.”  More teasing was certainly not going to help him feel less nervous.

So he closed his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths and working to relax his mind, trying not to kick himself for not having thought of trying that earlier, with Bane.  It helped, though, and when he reopened his eyes slowly, he didn’t look up, didn’t check for approval or direction, and instead dipped his head forward to press his mouth against Barsad’s cock, open just enough to touch his tongue against the skin.  Barsad murmured his appreciation, and John tentatively left a few kiss-like motions over him. 

“That’s nice, Éinín,” Barsad breathed out quietly.  His slender fingers were quick to wind into John’s hair, and it felt nice as he cradled his scalp, kept him close but not pulling him. 

John took him into his mouth, holding the base of him steady while he shifted his tongue at his foreskin, sliding it back.  He didn’t look up, but he knew Barsad was watching him even so, knew both of them were watching, and he could feel his ears heat up again.  Sucking lightly, he had to force himself not to think about that, to focus, which got a bit easier when he tasted Barsad’s precome on his tongue.  It was lighter, more like his own, and he licked it up a bit more greedily than he’d intended, his tongue firmly swiping over the tip of his shaft.  It got him chuckled at, but moaned at, as well.

He tried to repeat the things he’d done with Bane, holding him, running his fingers over his skin and giving small, light squeezes as he ran his lips over him, shifted his head.  His tongue, he found, moved all on its own, swirling around his tip and immediately licking away any wetness that gathered there.  If he hadn’t heard them talking about it, he might not have even noticed he’d started to moan softly, too. 

“A beautiful sound from our songbird,” Bane remarked, his tone very affectionate.

Barsad stroked through John’s hair, his hips rocking ever so slightly, not enough to really push him further into John’s mouth, but enough that he noticed.  “It is, indeed…  You are doing so well, Éinín, such a good boy.”

The praise spurred him on, and he sucked more of him into his mouth, careful to mind his throat, still.  When Barsad gave a warning tug to his ear, he was surprised to realize he was close to shooting off.  It seemed quicker this time, but he had also gotten into it a lot faster, as well.  And damn was he hard in his shorts; a lot harder than he’d been when he’d started, that was for sure.

Assuming he’d have the same options, he didn’t pull back to ask about his come.  Not that he’d admit it, but he kind of wanted Barsad to shoot into his mouth… He’d be prepared this time, wouldn’t yank back or choke.  If he lifted his tongue across the back of his mouth, he’d probably be fine; at least that was the hope. 

His nerves still building up a bit in the anticipation, he kept one hand wrapped around Barsad’s cock and the other reached to take a balancing hold on his hip, gripping the pants he hadn’t bothered to drop.  It helped a little, and being able to hold the material tightly gave him something to ground himself with.  At what seemed to be the last few moments, if Barsad’s more ragged breathing and rasped groans were any indication, John finally tilted his head to look up as he sucked at him.  That was apparently all he needed to be pushed over the edge, since as soon as their eyes locked, Barsad practically growled out his name and held John’s head with a shuddering grasp.  John could feel the muscle spasms against his mouth, and he quickly blocked his throat just in time for the hot squirt into it.  He felt pretty proud of himself when he pulled back after Barsad finished, much more carefully swallowing, not having anything on his face this time. 

Catching his breath and sitting back on his heels, he felt rather triumphant, actually, for having gotten them both off.  He smirked a bit to himself, and then groaned inwardly at how awkward that moment of pride really was. 

With them both finished, Barsad dropped back to the floor and pulled him into his arms, sitting with him.  He wouldn’t have expected it after blowing the two of them back to back, but his mouth was swept up by Barsad’s, his tongue dipping in against John’s.  Then again, maybe Barsad liked the taste just as much as he did, if the satisfied sounds coming from his throat were any indication.  Though he still had his shirt and boxer shorts on, he felt like he might as well be completely exposed when he felt a strong hand palm over his groin. 

It wasn’t Barsad’s.

The gasp couldn’t be helped, though he heard light laughter in response to it as his mouth was released.  “Jerk,” he murmured, not caring that it earned him a pinch to the side, making him squirm, making the hand over him press more firmly.  God, it felt good after being so hard all this time.  Bane had eased himself down from the chair to settle on the floor behind John, close behind him, leaving no room in between. 

Barsad shifted him in his arms, still holding him, but so he was sitting across his lap and more accessible to Bane who wrapped his braced arm around John’s back as his free hand dipped under the waistband of his shorts to guide him out of them.  His hand was warm against John’s stomach, even against the heated skin he exposed, for which he was grateful—or would have been, had he not been completely distracted by the feeling of his firm grip around his cock.  Goddamn, he could squeeze.  It wasn’t EXACTLY painful, but it lit up every nerve as he ran slow, measured pumps over John. 

He found himself shuddering in their arms, his breath reduced to ragged pants in just moments of their touch; of Barsad’s hand diving under his shirt and covering his stomach and chest, of Bane’s fingertips brushing over his balls with each downward stroke.  It probably wasn’t, but it felt like every exhale carried out a moan seated in his belly.  He was dimly aware of how much his body was shifting in their hold, but fuck if he could help it one bit. 

“Who’s got you, Éinín?” whispered Barsad into his ear, his lips brushing the skin behind it in a touch so light, so intimate that he found himself shivering over it.

Swallowing to wet his pant-dried throat, he replied, “You do…”

That damn breathy chuckle.  “And who am I?” he was asked again, and they were starting _this_ again… He could feel his face heat up even more than the flush it had gained at being stroked off.

“…Y-…” he knew, this time, that his name would not do.  “D-Daddy.”  The admission gained him a firm, closed-mouth kiss; a reward, of sorts.  His mouth trailed down to press against his jawline, his neck, settling there for a nuzzle.

“And who else has you, little bird?”

That was new.

He was feeling nearly dizzy from the steady grip on his dick, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer, so how could he be expected to answer new questions?  “W-what?”

Barsad only smiled against his neck, moving up to speak against his ear, his lips barely brushing his skin, and the bristles of his beard tickling over it.  “Who else has you, John?”

John’s eyes flicked over and up, met by Bane’s steady gaze as he watched him, as he gave an encouraging squeeze over John’s cock.  His eyes closed briefly with a groan, but he licked his lips, watching Bane as he started to answer Barsad.  “Ba—”

A sharp nip at his jaw interrupted him.  “No,” Barsad chided.  “Who else has you?”

Brow furrowing, he looked back at Barsad as he pulled away from John’s neck.  The look he received was soft, affectionate, but firm, as well.  It was just like the one he’d gotten on the rooftop several nights ago.  And with that, John realized exactly what was wanted, just as he had, then.  “Daddy,” he answered, only this time meaning Bane, instead.

The cool metal coils making up the front of Bane’s mask met the heated skin of John’s neck, and he jumped slightly, but tilted his head to the side to give more room for the contact; it felt nice.  He was a little unsure when it was immediately followed by what he could only describe as a low, possessive growl, but the hand on his dick sped up, started to really work him over, and then he couldn’t dwell on anything else.  Hand shooting to wrap around Bane’s flexed forearm, he gripped it tightly, probably leaving pressure marks from his nails, but he didn’t care, couldn’t care as he tried to breathe evenly, failing, tried to rock his hips up into the tight grip, only managing to writhe under his touch. 

Only one hand was actually on his cock, but with their arms around him, hands on his skin, their bodies pressed close, he felt surrounded, enclosed.  The cool metal was still against one side of his neck as Barsad nuzzled his way in against the other, kissing wetly at it, his beard grinding against the skin and pulling more shivers from him.  When he felt a bite next, it was too much, and his body gave up the shudders for practically convulsing as a near-violent orgasm ripped through him.  He came in splatters on his stomach where it was bare from Barsad having rucked up his shirt, and the man’s hand almost instantly left his chest to rub it into his skin.

Barsad practically cooed in his ear, his voice thrumming against his neck.  “Oh, what a good boy, John…”  He kissed at his neck more, working his way back up to his mouth to lick over his lips.  The hand left his stomach, and he didn’t have time to prepare before a damp finger swiped over his lips and dipped into his mouth, firmly rubbing his tongue.  “Taste,” he was ordered. 

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t before, so he licked his finger clean, a hummed encouragement following. 

“How is it, my little bird?” asked the smirk that peered down at him.

“How’s what, me?”

“Us,” Barsad corrected.  “How is it, to know you’ve the taste of all three of us in your mouth?”

Bane chuckled, the mask vibrating against John’s shoulder before he pulled up, watching his reaction along with Barsad.  He hadn’t exactly thought about that, that the three of them had all been in his mouth now.  Well, not his own dick, but still…  It should have been weird, but he found himself licking around the inside of his mouth, trying to distinguish the flavors he’d experienced today from his own, and found it seemed maybe he could, if only in his imagination.  Clearing his throat, he nodded a little.  “It… it’s good.”

The smirk eased into much more of a quiet smile, and John’s stomach warmed at the pleased look in Barsad’s eyes.  Looking to Bane’s, he saw much the same there, and couldn’t help reaching his arms up around his neck to hold onto him.  A thick, strong arm wrapped tightly around him as he was shifted from Barsad’s hold to his, and it was joined by its match once Bane used it to push up off the floor with a grunt at the effort from his position.  Holding John proved no trouble for him, however, and he was carried easily back to his bedroom.  Barsad had already gathered a damp washcloth, cleaning his stomach before he was laid out on the bed. 

“Don’t leave… please…” he tried not to sound pitiful, but if he ended up cold and alone to rest, all of that good feeling was going to start steadily seeping out of him, he just knew it.  There was still a lot to worry about, they hadn’t even discussed how Wayne’s vigilante was going to affect them now that they were back, but it was a distant thing in his mind, worried thoughts pushed away by the pleasant flush they’d brought on.  It could wait.  Unless they left him, at which point it would all come crashing back in to ruin his high.

“Shh,” he was quieted as they both climbed onto the bed with him, the springs creaking with the effort of adjusting to the sudden weight.  “We would never just leave you, Éinín.” 

He sank against the mattress in relief, curling up against Bane’s chest, bare, now, and warming him even more for it.  Barsad slipped in behind him, sandwiching John’s body between the two of them as a blanket was drawn over them.  He could feel bristles against the back of his neck, listened to the filtered breathing from the mask just above his head, and knew then that there would never be a better way to fall asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

“Some night, eh, O’Kelley?”  There was a dirty, dirty smirk in Maddox’s voice, and John had to wonder how the man just _knew_ these things.  He bumped John’s elbow eggingly as he stepped up beside him in the break room.  John hissed as that in turn bumped his hand into his mug, splattering scalding tea onto his thumb.  “…Sorry,” he even managed to sound smooth apologizing for being an idiot.

“Jerk,” John retorted, cleaning the counter space and sucking at the red blotch blossoming on his skin.  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Maddox snorted.  Moving aside tea packets and coffee filters, he hopped up to sit on the counter’s edge facing John, a mischievous glint in his eyes.  “Yes you do, my friend,” he started, pointing a finger and waggling it at John.  “You got laid last night, and from the looks of it, pretty hard, I’d say.”

Damnit.  Guy could take a day off from his perving any time.  He felt a flush rising up his neck under his collar, and fixed the rest of his tea, squirting some honey in for good measure.  His “Shut up” would have been more effective if he hadn’t gone half-hoarse in the middle of it, his voice cracking just a bit.  That wasn’t going to help.

“Catch a cold from her?”  The grin was cheeky, and he hated it.

“No.  And I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”  It wasn’t that he was embarrassed, he just knew it wasn’t a thing he could explain to Maddox; hell, he couldn’t explain it to himself.  _‘Last night_ _my two mercenary dads fucked my mouth until I couldn’t talk anymore, and that’s why my throat is sore this morning’_ didn’t sound like something anyone was going to understand.

A rude pair of fingertips brushed over his neck, and he jerked away lightning fast, leaving his tea on the counter at least, so he didn’t get another burn out of it.  He tugged at the collar of his shirt, wishing it was casual Friday or something so he could have worn a turtleneck.  Then again, that might have been even more obvious.

“I mean _that_ , Dear John.” He hated that nickname, but pretended to tolerate it.  Though he was pretty certain Maddox knew and just didn’t care.  “You have something more than a hickey going on.  _That_ is a bite mark.”  Maddox smirked wickedly.  “Point me in her direction, my friend; I like the feisty ones.”

“Fuck off,” John grumbled, taking his mug to a table.  The heat of the tea eased his roughed-up throat.  Who knew sucking cock would make his throat so sore? 

“What’s eating you?” Maddox asked as he hopped down to sprawl on the chair across from John.  “I mean, aside from your new girlfriend, apparently.  God, is it Tate?  O’Kelley, _please_ tell me it’s Tate.  I just know she has got to be a tiger in be—”

“It’s not Miranda, and don’t talk about her that way,” he growled a bit more venomously than he’d intended.  Of course he’d defend Talia if she was being slighted, but the comment had been mild for Maddox, he was just over-reacting.  Still he bristled, shifting in his seat irritably.  Really, he should be in an incredible mood, but strangely he felt kind of numb—save for his aching throat, that is.  “Just… it’s rude.”  It wasn’t an apology, and it fell flat even to his own ears, but maybe it took a little of the bite out of his words.

Maddox held up his hands in defeat.  “Okay, okay,” he conceded.  “But come on, man… You never talk about this stuff, and then you show up looking like you went twenty-toes all night, with a sexy bite mark on your neck, and I can’t help asking some questions, right?  Can you blame me?”

He couldn’t, he supposed, not really.  It really hadn’t been necessary for Barsad to _bite_ him…

> _When he woke up, the sunlight was fading into dusk and not much of it was coming through the bedroom window anymore.  He was also dimly aware that the bed was moving.  Not a lot, but it was enough for him to feel it as he found his way back to consciousness.  It didn’t really make sense until the rest of his senses returned and he heard the heavy breathing from behind him._
> 
> _Oh._
> 
> _If it hadn’t already been before he’d woken, his dick would have started to harden just at hearing the clearly pleasured moan that rang out from Barsad.  It was clearly his voice, but it was much more pronounced than the moans he’d gotten from him earlier.  It was also punctuated in the same timing as the bed’s motion._
> 
> _Oh._
> 
> _For a moment, he wasn’t even sure if he should turn around, but he certainly couldn’t go back to sleep even though they were probably being quiet for his sake.  And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen them before, though that was a long time ago, now.  There’d been a few nights he’d been overly curious and looked up some gay porn, but he’d freaked himself out before he’d ended up watching any of it.  This wasn’t porn, though, this was happening right behind him, and it was_ them _.  He had to look._
> 
> _By the time he turned around enough to look, they both had their eyes on him, Barsad’s far more lidded than usual, but still amused as he was bracing his hands on Bane’s chest and… for lack of any better words John couldn’t think of at the moment… riding him._
> 
> _“Did you rest well, Éinín?” Barsad asked in probably the most casual while-having-sex voice John could possibly imagine._

“No,” he answered Maddox after taking a slow, careful swallow.  “I can’t blame you, just judge you a little.”  He let a half smile slide his lips up, and it seemed to satisfy him enough for the moment.  “She’d never go for you, anyway,” he teased.

“Oh, cold,” Maddox fairly howled.  “Must be the quiet types, then,” he winked.

John rolled his eyes as he fiddled with the tag on the teabag, dunking it a few more times before drawing it out and tossing it in the trash bin, its use fulfilled.  “I already told you, it’s not her.”  He waved politely to one of their office mates who’d walked in to get a cup of coffee.  Few people used the break room for long, as it didn’t exactly have the best to offer in the way of coffees or teas unless people brought their own, and the woman left once she’d filled up a travel mug full of dark roast.  Of course, Maddox leering at her could have encouraged her exit, as well.

“You know, you’d possibly get a lot better attention just for talking to people instead of staring at them like you’re going to eat them, right?”  Normally he tried not to say anything, to keep his judgments to himself, but today it was just grating on him too much.

Maddox paused, but didn’t seem too fazed by the jibe.  He just propped his feet up on the chair between them, crossing his arms.  “I find most people around here don’t like being talked at too much.  You talk at the girl that got you?”  The last was asked along with an eyebrow raise.  “I mean, really, O’Kelley; you’ve got the better track record, right?”

John felt the glare snake out before he could stop it, but Maddox only smiled his typical smile.

“Well, you never flirt around here, never talk about girls, and you land yourself a fighter—a biter—all of the sudden, right?  What’d you do?”  John really couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just teasing from another angle.  Either way, he’d fairly checked out of the conversation once Talia had been brought up.  “Or did you do nothing, and she just took what she wanted?”

“Just stop, okay?”

Maddox studied him for a few moments quietly.  Being watched like that might have made him uncomfortable if he weren’t already used to the kind of scrutiny he received from Bane or Barsad.  Maddox had nothing on them, and he certainly had nothing on Talia.  When he finally spoke, his tone had changed.  “How about you come out with me tonight?  There’s this bar I like that’s nice and busy, but doesn’t get too crowded most of the time.”

“…What?”  John looked up, caught off-guard by the suggestion.  “I don’t go out like that,” he protested, but Maddox only sat up more in his seat.

“Yeah, I know.  O’Kelley, _everyone_ knows that, and that’s why you should.  I mean, tell me, when’s the last time you had fun?”

He started to argue that point, but Maddox held up his hands to stop him.

“Okay, clearly poorly worded as per last night… And we know you get some sick enjoyment out of data patterns that none of the rest of us understand.”  He pointed at him, finger waggling again.  “Don’t think no one sees your eyes light up when weird shit happens with numbers, man, because they do.”

John felt his nostrils flare slightly.  He hadn’t really been conscious of that, and it annoyed him that he’d let an obvious emotion slip without noticing it even being there.  He did like patterns and numbers, but he’d have to keep a better attention on what showed in his face if Maddox was catching things like that.  The question of what else might be visible came into his mind, and he found himself worrying over it a bit. 

“I know, you’re pissed I got you on something, but that’s not the point.”  To John it was.  “When’s the last time you had fun just for the sake of having fun?” he asked again.  “Let off steam?  Got out some of that cubicle-aggression that’s bred into us?”  The last bit was obviously a joke, and John allowed a small laugh in acknowledgement.  Maddox seemed pleased.

Shrugging his shoulders, John answered, “Not in a while, I guess.”

He got a grin.  “So do it, go drinking with me.”

It wasn’t that John hadn’t had alcohol before, it was that he’d never gone to a bar—the strip club couldn’t count in the slightest.  He was twenty-one on paper, and didn’t really care what some drinking law said anyway, but it was just one of the excesses he’d been raised to keep in check.  Bane never had it, though partly due to it messing with his medication, and Barsad very rarely indulged.  Talia, from what John knew, drank only socially.  On the other hand, he didn’t think he could handle another night quite like the last again so soon, so maybe it would be good to get out, to come home late.  And who knew what Maddox might say when liquored up.  He _had_ been stressed with the public opening so quickly approaching… Everything would work out, of course, but it was still having him on-edge.  The next couple of days would be tense.

“Cat got your tongue?” Maddox teased.

> _“What’s the matter, little bird…” he was asked when he couldn’t form words right away, “has the cat got your tongue?” Barsad winked at him as he kept right on rocking his body against Bane’s, just grinding at him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do with John lying there watching.  John could see the little twitches in his cheeks and eyes with each movement, and his own eyes were drawn down to where their bodies met, though from his angle he could only see Barsad’s hips seated._
> 
> _“I…” licking his lips, he couldn’t think of any words that really worked.  So he stared more, instead.  Surely that was the appropriate response._
> 
> _“John,” his name was spoken to gather his attention, voiced firmly though it was soft, and his eyes were drawn away from their staring back up to Bane’s face.  His hand reached out, touching John’s cheek lightly, and just that contact was enough to make him shiver, knowing what the body connected to that hand was up to at the moment.  “We will see to you when we finish.”  Well that was blunt._
> 
> _He nodded rather dumbly in reply, waiting not being an optional thing at the moment, and just lay there as the hand that had just so gently touched his cheek retreated to smack smartly at Barsad’s ass.  The sound startled John, and Barsad hissed, his nails digging half-moon shapes into Bane’s chest.  That was when he realized the skin of Barsad’s ass was already a reddish hue, and there were a good number of nail-shaped depressions marking up Bane’s chest, stomach and arms.  Jesus, how long had they been at it before he’d finally woken up?  Had they even slept at all?_
> 
> _The hiss was quickly followed up by a low growl when his other cheek was slapped, both grabbed up in a fierce grip by Bane’s large hands.  It was mesmerizing to watch the ferocity suddenly exchanged between them.  John had seen them fight, but this was nothing like a sparring match; it clearly went deeper.  Barsad’s hips quite suddenly snapped downward after lifting just enough for leverage, and he exhaled sharply, an appreciative groan erupting from Bane as he seemed only to grasp more firmly at his ass.  Head ducking down as he bowed his back, Barsad continued to thrust himself down at Bane, most of his leverage no doubt from his braced arms since his legs were stretched wide to straddle Bane’s frame._
> 
> _Firm grunts came with each exhale, and John saw his lip curl up slightly at the effort.  Then just as he had started to speed up, to get into a better rhythm, there was a blur of motion as Bane grunted and rolled, flipping their positioning over faster than John thought he’d be able to from his angle.  Even so, Barsad was under him in a flash, pinned firmly to the mattress under Bane’s weight and giving him a growl for his troubles.  His heels instantly rose up to brace against Bane’s sides, his legs pushing even as Bane eased more of his weight down against him which could only be driving his cock further into Barsad’s ass and oh God that was exactly what was happening, wasn’t it… John found himself confronted for the first time in his adult life with the inescapable knowledge that yes, yes, his dads fucked each other in the ass.  This was a thing that happened._

John shook his head, downing the rest of the tea in his mug with a solid swallow, letting it ease over his throat.  “No, I’m fine.”  He thought it over for a few more moments before answering.  “…Okay.  Let’s do it.”

It got an excited grin from Maddox, almost triumphant, like he’d just won at something.  It was true enough, John supposed, since convincing him was sort of like winning the conversation.  “Perfect.  After hours, then.”  With a bounce, he stood and strode out, leaving John wondering exactly what his text message to Barsad would have to say to be enough of a courtesy of _‘hey I’m not coming home right away’_ but little enough information to not get him in trouble.

He ended up thinking over it for the entire second half of his shift, and even then he was still undecided on the wording.  Honestly, he’d have rather not sent a text at all, but he knew that kind of action would lead to more trouble later than he might get in now just for going.  It shouldn’t be trouble, though; he was an adult, he’d been on his own for almost a year before they’d come back, and he should be allowed to live life a little, right?  That and it helped his cover, but if he thought about it that way it just sounded a bit pathetic.  Maybe he could worry about getting inebriated information out of Maddox the next time they went to the bar, maybe this time could just be about him, not his persona; just letting off some steam.

By the time quitting hour came around, John could think of little else aside from the bar and his cell phone.  _‘Going out for a bit with a friend_ ’ he deleted the last two words, feeling they’d be over played, and started typing again, ‘ _someone from work, be back home later tonight,’_ he finished and fired off to Barsad.  He cringed as he stuffed the small phone into his outer pocket, throwing the coat over his shoulders.

“Ready, O’Kelley?” Maddox’s question was muffled by a pen held between his teeth as he finished clearing off his desk for the night.

“Yeah, I guess.”  They dropped off the last of their paperwork and took the elevator down.  John tensed a bit when the doors opened and Wayne was there, but taking a different car would have looked suspicious, and Maddox looked way too excited about riding with him, so on they went.  It was a quiet trip down, though John got a nod from Wayne before he made his way out of the building ahead of them.  Guy had a pace to rival Daggett’s, though he managed to look relaxed with it.

Maddox had a weird look on his face on the way to hail a cab for them, but didn’t say anything. 


	14. Chapter 14

The part of town they ended up in wasn’t that familiar to him, even though he’d mapped out most of it long ago.  He guessed it was because of the bars.  Unlike what he’d expected, the place they went into wasn’t street level, but had a set of stairs down to it, turning a sharp corner, and had a door man who scrutinized them before letting them inside.  The air inside the place was incredibly smoky, a thick quality to it, and John was very aware of the soft pack in his coat.  Yes, this could be good.  He had one out and lit the second they sat down at one of the high-set tables that circled the bar.  There were booths, too, but John kind of liked the tall stools being among the crowd of the room, though Maddox had been right, it wasn’t too overloaded of a space.  It was better that way.  John didn’t like being alone, but too many people in one space made him anxious.

“What can I get you boys?” asked a young, smooth voice as its owner, just as young and smooth looking in a snug v-necked shirt, sidled up to their table.  He didn’t even look John’s age, let alone old enough to serve in a bar, but looks could be deceiving.  “Your usual starter, Maddox?” the guy asked with a wink, and Maddox just smiled at him, nodding.

“Sure, and get the kid here the same for me, okay, Joshua?” he returned the wink then, and Joshua, as he’d called him and as John now noticed was etched out on his nametag, headed off to the counter to talk with the bartender. 

“What am I drinking, then?” John had to ask.  He didn’t really know what he would have ordered, but it felt strange to have it ordered for him without even asking him first.

“Just Jack and Coke for now, nothing too heavy,” Maddox answered as he popped a couple of nuts into his mouth from the bowl in the middle of the table, settling his elbows on the wood surface. “So what do you think so far, O’Kelley?”  He was watching him closely, but John’s eyes were roaming, taking in their surroundings as he took a drag of his cigarette.   

Two exits, one the way they’d come in with the door man and another was a door in the rear that no doubt led to a shady back alley.  Thirty-seven people inside including the guy behind the bar and a one-man-show guitarist on a pathetic little stage setup.  Two in the restroom.  That was when he noticed; each and every one of the thirty-seven people inside the bar was male.  A majority would have been normal enough not to strike him as odd, but all of them?  Not even a female server?  His brow furrowed as he looked around again, took in the way some of the guys were sitting, how several shared the same side of their booths instead of sitting on opposite benches. 

“What are you wondering over there, scowly?”  Maddox cut into his thoughts, his tone light and teasing, like he knew something John didn’t.  “Wondering why it’s all guys?”  So he _did_ know something John didn’t.  He just nodded, thanking Joshua politely for his drink when it arrived.  “Why do you think?”

Just like Maddox to make him guess.  “What,” he started flippantly, “you take me out to a gay bar or something?”  He took a swallow from his glass, definitely liking it.  When he looked back at Maddox, he was eyeing him seriously for once, and that was all he needed for it to be confirmed.  “…You took me out to a gay bar?” he whispered harshly, not having been aware that was actually a thing that really existed outside of comedy movies.

Maddox shrugged slightly, holding his gaze.  “I thought maybe it’d be better…”

“I’m not _gay_ ,” he hissed out.

“Really?  You don’t have to pretend, even if you aren’t out.  I won’t say anything to anyone, trust me.”  There was something more to his tone, the promise sincere in a way that had John reevaluating everything he’d learned and assumed about the man in the past few months. 

“Maddox, I’m _not_ …”  He tried to show enough confusion in his face to make it more convincing.

Maddox took a solid drink from his glass, gesturing with it as he continued to hold it after.  “Well, hear me out on my process with this one…” he started, and John felt the least he could do at the moment was to wave him on.  “I see you following Tate around like a puppy, and I’m sure she likes that kind of thing, but the way you look at her is different; you’re not fucking, no matter how I’d like to live vicariously through you on that one.”

Well, they had, the one time… but John wasn’t going to argue for that and encourage more lecherous comments about Talia during his work days.

“And you don’t talk about girls,” Maddox continued, sipping from his drink before going back to waving it around to aid his points.  “Even when we all do, and you’re all quiet and grumpy about this bite mark on your neck, and your throat’s sore today, and—”

John looked up sharply at that, and it made Maddox stop mid sentence.  Then he slowly, steadily grinned.  It only lasted a moment, his face relaxing back into more of just a simple ‘knew it’ expression.

“It was a guy, wasn’t it?”

John cleared his throat.  “I don’t—”

Maddox set down the drink, waving his hand as he swallowed another sip.  “Don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about, because the look on your face when I mentioned your throat says you sucked someone off last night.”  There was absolutely nothing smug about the guy’s expression at the moment, and that was making John far more uncomfortable than being teased or mocked ever could. 

He felt his upper lip twitch.  It was a split-second decision, but he was on his feet in an instant, tossing a few bucks onto the table and straightening his jacket.  “We’ll do this another time, maybe,” he dismissed, starting to turn for the front exit when he felt a restrictive tug at his neck.  Annoyed, he looked down to see Maddox had grabbed his tie to stop him, having given it a slight tug to get his attention.

“John,” he spoke, using his first name by itself for maybe only the third time since they’d met, “don’t just run off…”  The hold on his tie remained, pulling against his neck as he shifted on his feet, its pressure sliding against the slight bruising around the bite mark and making the nerves flare up.

> _They were kind of breathtaking to watch, if he was being honest with himself.  There was a lot of energy, force, and ferocity to their actions, but there was still a clear sense of how well they knew each other, each bit of each other.  Bane’s touches to Barsad’s body were intentional, confident, and they made the man shudder under him, growl here and there in a way John had never heard him.  If he hadn’t gotten the order not to touch himself, he’d have jacked off quite easily just to the sight of them together… though he chose not to admit that too loudly to himself._
> 
> _When they’d finished, Bane having rather roughly snapped his hips at Barsad until he’d let out a low growl as he came, they shared a look between them that tugged a smile at John’s mouth.  They washed up quickly, Barsad returning first to stand for a moment just looking over John.  He’d left his shorts on for sleep, but he was tenting them, and Barsad’s eyes settled there with a smirk on his face._
> 
> _“Did you enjoy that, John?” he asked in a voice devoid of any possible innocence.  Walking over to the bed, he pressed a palm on John’s chest, running it down over his stomach, gripping his side almost possessively.  “We enjoy watching our boy, as well.”_
> 
> _A firm but gently push guided John’s shoulders back to the bed when he tried to sit up, and then both of Barsad’s hands were on him.  His sides were grasped, squeezed, stroked over, and as the hands moved up over his chest he sucked in a sharp breath at his nipples being palmed.  It was followed by a sharp hiss when they were suddenly pinched, and he slapped at Barsad’s hands without thinking.  That hadn’t been the brightest move he could have made._
> 
> _In a flash, he found himself pinned to the bed under Barsad, his strong, wiry frame having no trouble holding down John’s larger body.  His wrists were over his head, clasped together tightly in the grasp of just one of Barsad’s hands.  Struggling only seemed to get more of the man’s weight pushing down on him._
> 
> _Clear blue eyes stared down into his, relaxed as always, calm, calculating.  “Are you certain that is what you’d like to start today, John?”  The back of his free hand stroked over John’s cheek, fingertips tapping at his jawline and then his neck.  An almost imperceptible squeeze played at his throat, and it sent a thrilled shiver through the rest of his body, the traitorous thing.  Being choked or threatened with being choked should not be turning him on further.  “Because if you start that, it will continue,” Barsad warned._
> 
> _John shuddered again, not even sure he knew what all that would mean, not sure if he thought it sounded good or bad, but knowing just how hard he was, how much his dick was being ground against Barsad’s as he fairly sat right on it to pin him.  Really unnecessary, that, surely._
> 
> _“Uhm…” he licked over his lips while he thought over how to respond, though the action just drew Barsad’s eyes to his mouth.  “Uhm… what exactly would that…”  Squirming wasn’t the best choice, either, in that position._
> 
> _“Starting a fight results in a fight, little bird, does it not?”_
> 
> _“Yeah, but, like… fighting isn’t sex…”  That got him a laugh, surprisingly.  A real laugh.  “What?” he asked, brow lowering as he felt a bit mocked.  “What did I say?”_
> 
> _Barsad gave him a fond look.  “Oh, Éinín… It is time we taught you so many things.”_
> 
> _“So what, you guys just been waiting to pounce me the second I was legal, or what?”  It was flippant, not expecting a sincere answer, though he got one anyway._
> 
> _“No, just until you were ready, John.”  His crotch was ground at, and he found his hips rising with the pressure.  “And it seems you are, aren’t you?”_
> 
> _God.  Yes.  Yes, he was.  He gave a nod in agreement, and was ground down at more firmly for it._
> 
> _“F-fuck,” he slipped, and there was a sharp reprimanding pinch to his nipples.  “Damnit, sorry!” he gasped out.  “Feels different like that.”_
> 
> _“You are certain to make the boy burst, should you continue, Barsad,” spoke Bane’s heavy voice from the bathroom._
> 
> _Barsad smirked, somehow managing to keep John’s arms pinned_ and _lean down flick his tongue over a red-tinged nipple, grazing over it with his teeth.  “You cannot see what I’m doing,” he replied as he gave John’s other nipple the same attention.  He wriggled under him, not having been aware that was a spot for guys as well as girls; theirs were more obvious._
> 
> _“My ears work fine,” Bane returned, stepping back into the room, still stripped but looking freshly washed up.  “Too much stimulation will have him blown before he has a change to work for it,” he chided, and John just stared.  Was this really happening?_


	15. Chapter 15

> _Barsad relented, stealing a kiss from John before letting go of his wrists and climbing off of him.  “Alright, then,” he began, “on the floor, John; on your knees.”_
> 
> _His eyes flicked between the two of them, but he listened, sliding carefully off of the bed and onto the floor, settling his knees against the carpet.  “Okay…”_
> 
> _Bane stepped up behind him, and John understood Barsad’s sudden smirk when he felt something smooth slipped over his head and down around his neck—his suit tie.  It was given a slight tug, and memories of playing ‘dogs and cats’ as a young child came to mind.  “This will be used to direct you, not to hurt you,” Bane explained.  One hand grasped the tie while his other rubbed at the back of John’s neck.  “If you feel it is being misused, if it becomes painful, you are to pull twice on it, understood?”_
> 
> _“I can’t just say something?”_
> 
> _Barsad smiled affectionately, running the pad of his thumb over John’s lips.  “Your mouth will likely be otherwise occupied at the time, little bird.”  Right._
> 
> _“Okay,” he agreed, nodding.  “I’ll tug it twice if it hurts.”_
> 
> _“Or if it feels misused,” Bane reminded.  “We do not want you to be truly uncomfortable for us, John.”  Thick fingers stroked through John’s hair, dragging along his scalp to tilt his head back to look up at him.  “We would like to explore your body, little one… as well as put it to use… but never at your true expense.   Never to upset or damage you.”  His eyes were firm, his tone sincere, and it made John feel safe, like it always did.  They would never let him get hurt, they would protect him._
> 
> _“Wait, what if my hands are busy or something?  Like both them AND my mouth?”  He wanted to be crystal clear on his directions even though he wasn’t sure what exactly to expect after them._
> 
> _Bane thought that one over for a moment.  “We will leave one hand free if your mouth is full,” he decided.  “Then there will be no issue.  We would prefer to guide you through this, little one, but not to force you.”_
> 
> _John snorted slightly.  “I don’t think you have to worry about forcing me with this…”  He wanted to feel them, and he wanted to please them, too, to make them feel good, but also to make them proud of him._
> 
> _Barsad stepped closer, stroking gently over his cheek even as his necktie was held taut from behind him.  “Just because you want one kind of touch does not mean you automatically want another, Éinín,” he spoke softly, fingernails scraping lightly at John’s jaw.  “There are so many things we wish to do to you, but we want you to be willing and prepared for each one.”  His eyes softened for a moment.  “You are my charge to care for first, before anything else.  My little bird.”  The hand slipped along his neck, fingers threading into his hair at its nape, and it was given a short, sharp tug that sent a shudder through John.  “But you are also a grown boy, strikingly beautiful, and pleasurable to touch and be touched by,” he finished._
> 
> _And oh, how much he wanted to please him.  There was approval in Barsad’s eyes when John butted his head against his hand a little, and a spark he couldn’t quite describe when he kissed over his thumb.  Hungry, maybe.  He decided hunger was a definite fit when Barsad dipped down to capture John’s mouth with his own, as if he were trying to devour him.  It muddied John’s thoughts, his awareness, and he had barely compensated when Barsad’s tongue was switched out for his cock, firm and warm and pressing heavy against John’s lips, still tingling from the pressure of the kiss.  He had practice this time, and he ran his tongue out and along the underside of him, eyes flicking up and gaining a feeling of satisfaction from the encouragement on Barsad’s face._
> 
> _It seemed he slipped even more easily into John’s mouth this time, though maybe it was just that he was better prepared for the stretch, to compensate for the weight on his tongue.  Two sets of fingers sifted through his hair, rubbing at his scalp and stroking over his ears.  The touch was so encompassing, he felt it so strongly, and he was the one who was supposed to be making HIM feel good, not the other way around.  But it did, it felt so good to know he was making Barsad feel good that way, so he sucked at him, ran his mouth over his heated skin, wetly licked and mouthed at the base of his cock, kissing firmly.  The sounds he got in return let him know it was going well, but then he felt a tug at his neck.  The back of it, instead of the front, and he was aware that the necktie had been passed to Barsad’s hold._
> 
> _Barsad shifted, and John opened his eyes to look up, but he only saw a smirk.  Apparently, Barsad had hooked his hand around to pull John’s tie up between his legs.  John didn’t understand the move until he gave it a sharp tug from behind him, upward, pulling John further onto his cock, and that tie was either getting dry-cleaned or thrown out because ties weren’t supposed to grind in asscracks, no matter how clean they may be.  He did like that one, comparatively, but maybe he could go shopping with Talia for a new one and blame Barsad.  Though that would mean explaining… Maybe he’d have it cleaned._
> 
> _Another tug pulled him further, and he felt the tip of him start to bump the back of his throat, not the most pleasant feeling when it came with a tug.  Eyes starting to water, he tried to keep his breathing steady through his nose, but a shift of Barsad’s hips closed off his throat.  Panic started to well up inside of him, and he shuddered, shook, barely remembering to tug twice on the tie, which briefly pulled Barsad’s body_ closer _, though he was immediately released.  Faster than he would have thought, his throat and mouth were empty, his neck free, and he sat back on his heels to gulp in lungfuls of air._
> 
> _Barsad crouched down in front of him, looking into his eyes, checking him over.”Are you alright, John?” he asked, his voice relaxed as ever, but John could still see the spark of concern in his calm eyes._
> 
> _He nodded quickly to reassure him, clearing his throat carefully and with a bit of effort.  “Ye-ah,” he took another careful breath when he found his voice only broke with use.  “I’m alright, just caught me off-guard is all.”  The concern hadn’t quite left, so he rolled his eyes a little to sell it better.  “Really.  I’m fine.  It didn’t hurt, or even feel that bad,” he explained as he realized it himself.  “Uhm…” he hesitated, then figured, fuck it, he could just tug the tie if he really needed to stop.  “Can… we try it like that again?  I didn’t really gag, just got startled…”  It didn’t even occur to him that that might not be the best thing to admit to them in the moment.  There was a low, throaty noise from behind him, and it should have clued him in, if he’d had any sense.  “Just maybe not with the tie pulling, too,” he added to the questioning look that met him._
> 
> _Barsad smiled, and it would probably have been unsettling on anyone else’s face, on anyone he didn’t trust so completely.  “Alright, Éinín, if you would like to.”_
> 
> _Apparently, not having much of a gag reflex wasn’t so common, and was something to be prized, because that was how he was treated when Barsad was able to fit the top of his cock all the way into John’s throat, to bottom out at his mouth.  John’s lips pressed tightly against the skin of his groin and belly, nose almost flattened except left open enough to keep him from feeling too claustrophobic.  A tug to the tie was all that was needed to get him the air he required, though each time Barsad eased his length forward, down into him, he found he could wait longer before pulling at it._
> 
> _If he’d been asked he wouldn’t have been able to explain it, but somehow it felt good—a kind of comforting—to have his mouth and throat feel so full.  It felt good to have Barsad’s body pressed against his face, to feel so close to him, and to have him inside of him like that.  And he clearly was not the only one enjoying it.  When he’d looked up during a breathing moment, he’d seen Bane’s eyes hooded with what he could only think to call lust.  The breathing through his mask was also heavier, less even, not to mention Barsad’s panted grunts._
> 
> _The tie shifted before too long, and he could tell it had been handed off to Bane even before Barsad drew himself back and out of John’s mouth, letting him breathe.  Clearing his throat, he looked up as they switched places, Bane reaching to run his fingers over his scalp, through John’s hair, catching and holding it as it wound around them.  A steady pull tilted John’s head back more, and his eyes were caught by the intense gaze down into them._
> 
> _“Open,” came the simple instruction, and he did, opening his mouth and shifting his tongue so that more of Bane’s cock could ease in better, feeling his mouth stretch to adjust for his thickness.  Bane allowed him to lick and suck at him for a few moments, his free hand stroking against his cheek before joining its mate threaded through his hair, making a tight hold behind his head.  “Breathe.”_
> 
> _John knew well enough by then to take a good, deep breath, working to calm himself as Bane’s length was eased into the edge of his throat, blocking his airway.  He focused on the hands in his hair, the feeling of fullness, working to stay calm as his brain fought against the thicker stretch to his throat; he didn’t have to be gagging for automatic panic reflexes to kick in.  A small thrust of his hips accompanied a throaty groan, and John’s hands flew up to grasp at Bane’s thighs, nails pressing into the skin above powerful muscles.  It took effort to pull one away to yank at the tie for air, but he was again immediately released._
> 
> _He ended up gasping more this time, the air passing more roughly over his esophagus, but he didn’t take long to recover, sliding the head of Bane’s cock back between his lips to show he was ready to keep going.  It eased forward again, and John was again given the order to breathe before his throat was filled to the brim, his hair tightly grasped as Bane rocked his hips forward once, twice, and then several more times before John had to pull at the tie.  His nails dug into Bane’s thigh more harshly the next time as he thrust his cock further down John’s throat, his face pressed firmly against Bane’s skin, his fuller belly, as his head was trapped between his body and his hands.  It felt far more like being used, being fucked, he realized, and his own dick seemed content to twitch inside his shorts, eager for any possible participation on its part.  The thought was still overwhelming, though, and he tugged on the tie more out of the need to calm himself, to process that just for a moment, than out of a need for air._
> 
> _Coughing this time, he sat back on his heels a little to give himself more time to recover, despite the move pulling at his hair.  Slender fingers brushed at his cheek, and he looked up to see Barsad’s face sympathetic._
> 
> _“You’re doing very well, Éinín,” he spoke quietly, cupping John’s chin._


	16. Chapter 16

John cleared his throat, still rough despite the tea earlier.  “I’m not running anywhere, just leaving,” he argued, but Maddox didn’t let it go, still looked sincere, serious. 

“No, you’re running from something, and you don’t have to.”  Maddox hadn’t yet released his tie, and it was starting to grate on John’s nerves.  He could have yanked it out of his grasp, stormed out of the bar in an angry rush, but he had more control than that, his identity required him to, to stay under the radar, to be present but unnoticed, so he was stuck for the moment, and the other man seemed to sense enough of it. 

“Just leaving is all; this isn’t the venue I expected.”  He spoke the second part more quietly, not wanting to offend anyone who was there by choice.  Just because he wasn’t gay didn’t mean he wanted to disrespect anyone who was.  And that had him suddenly curious about the hand still firmly grasping his tie, its owner’s familiarity with the tiny waiter in a _gay_ bar finally clicking in John’s head.  “…Are _you_ …?”

Maddox didn’t nod or shake his head, just gestured to the empty stool John had left.  “Sit back down for a few minutes, at least?  Hear me out?”  After a moment, he slowly released the tie, his hand opening in a gesture of good faith that John wouldn’t just leave, and John sighed.  A few minutes wouldn’t kill him.

As he sat, their skinny little waiter came over and set a rather pink-tinged drink down on the table in front of John.  “Hey… I didn’t order that,” he protested, but Joshua didn’t look fazed at all.

“Nope,” he replied cheerfully and with a wink John immediately despised.  “Compliments of the gentleman at the bar,” he explained, pointing to a rather burly man seated at the bar’s counter.  He was watching their table, and he lifted his own amber-colored tumbler glass in toasted greeting when John caught his eye.

Great… in a gay bar for 5 minutes, and he was already getting hit on.  He wasn’t really sure at all what to think about that.

And Maddox just laughed, the asshole.  “Just wave or nod; you don’t have to drink it or go over there or anything.”

John grumbled lightly, giving a curt nod toward the bar.  “Thanks for the etiquette lesson…”  He ignored the pink drink, choosing instead to take another swallow of what Maddox had ordered, and trying not to compare the two’s existences in front of him.  “So have at it, then… what am I listening to?”

Finishing his drink, Maddox planted his elbows on the table, crossing his arms over each other as he spoke.  “An explanation… and I guess what I’m hoping is a helping hand.”  When John didn’t say anything, he continued, “I know I have a reputation around work, and outside of it, too, with all the guys… and believe me when I say I’ve put in a lot of effort to keep that rep in good, working order… but that’s not really… me.” 

“I’m starting to gather that, yeah.”

Maddox laughed lightly, signaling Joshua for another drink when he walked by.  “Yeah, well, I like the girls, don’t get me wrong, I mean, I’m not faking it when I say Miranda Tate is the hottest thing to walk around the Wayne building, but I still end up here most nights.”  He shrugged a little.  “Feels more at home, being around people I don’t have to fake it for, you know?”

John did know exactly what _that_ was like, and he nodded in agreement.

“Thanks,” he spoke to Joshua with a wink when he got his second glass.  “The reason I brought you here is because I know what it feels like to have to hide part of yourself.  Everyone hides little things, it’s part of what makes us who we are, but sometimes it helps to tell someone, takes the pressure off.”  Taking a swallow, he continued, looking almost past John rather than at him.  “Sometimes we don’t even know we’re hiding it until it comes out on its own.” 

The story that followed was one John couldn’t possibly identify with, not having been put through regular schooling after he’d been taken in as a child, but he could sympathize with the feelings of loneliness and being an outsider just the same.  Apparently Maddox had been bullied through school, having known he liked other guys even before high school, having to learn to hide it and compensate so he wouldn’t get picked on.  He’d even changed schools over it, feeling lucky he’d been able to.  John could understand hiding pieces of who he was, putting on an act; he was doing it right now, though not in the way Maddox was thinking.

“People are shit, O’Kelley… and sometimes you gotta use ‘em or they’ll use you.”  There was bitterness in his tone, but it left his face quickly, chased by one of his classic smiles, smiles John only just then realized, not having thought to look for it, before, were probably half as forced as his own.  Fake it to make it.

John gave a short, wry laugh, more a snort than anything.  “Well, that’s a shitty outlook,” he replied.

Maddox looked up sharply, and then just chuckled quietly.  “Yeah, well, it’s a shitty world, O’Kelley.”  John certainly couldn’t argue the point.  Everything he believed in, everything he’d pledged his life to help accomplish hinged on the fact that the world was shitty, that its people needed help to balance themselves, to balance each other.  “You make the most of what you’ve got, right?”

> _Still holding his chin, Barsad leaned down, licking into John’s open mouth before his lips even touched John’s.  He was pulled up to his feet, though he felt Bane’s hands settle a firm grip about his waist when his knees only wobbled, threatening to buckle completely, instead of holding him up.  It helped him balance, and let him focus on the way his mouth had been taken over by Barsad, who was aggressively exploring it with his tongue, their teeth clicking together here and there, but not so hard that it hurt.   Barsad held him close, pressed against his body, and John could feel the man’s erection as it ground firmly at John’s hip.  That is, until he shifted and positioned so that he ground against John’s cock, instead.  Startled by the sudden sliding pressure, he gasped, letting out a sharp moan that found its answer in Barsad’s._
> 
> _He was almost too overwhelmed to notice the hand sliding down his waist to spread over his ass.  Almost.  It felt strange, different from any of their touches so far, and he startled, nervousness creeping up his throat until he had to push at Barsad’s chest.  It didn’t work, only got his ass grabbed up firmly, squeezed, and John couldn’t help a groan, but pushed again until he remembered the tie, squirming a hand up to tug at it.  Twice._
> 
> _He was let go, then, at least enough to breathe, though his body was still sandwiched between theirs, and their hands were still on him.  Bane had stepped up so closely behind him that he swore he could feel the hard bump against his bottom, pulling at the material of his shorts.  Eyes widening, his breath sped up at the realization of his position, of what they were so close to doing to him.  Panic seized his throat, and he thrashed in their hold, finding himself lifted off of the floor in a heartbeat, Bane’s arms tightly grasped around him as his legs fought for purchase._
> 
> _“Lemme down!” he shouted, red starting to edge its way into the frame of his vision, his defenses rising.  Clawing at Bane’s forearms, he gasped for air, knowing it came in, but not feeling like he had enough with each breath even so.  “L-Let go!  Let GO!”  It had been growled, violently spit out of his mouth, but he couldn’t take it back, couldn’t help it._
> 
> _As he was moved, he was barely aware that he had kicked solidly at Barsad, not knocking him over but causing him to stumble back a couple of steps, his calm demeanor darkening, his eyes flashing with a ferocity not ever directed at John.  It might have scared him any other moment, but he couldn’t focus on anything, let alone that.  The red was creeping further, and it was starting to take over as he fought. His fingers felt wetness and he was dimly aware that he had scratched through the skin of Bane’s arms.  Yet those arms held him firm, steady, carefully without crushing him, without breaking him as they so easily could have._
> 
> _Barsad wiped blood from his mouth, but did not step up to retaliate.  John was carried to the bed, Bane sitting back against the wall and holding him tightly even as he yelled, pulled at him.  Barsad was talking calmly, saying his name, but he could only hear him as a distant sound.  Then he felt it, the sting, the pain at his neck.  He growled out in shock, but it only increased the pressure of teeth at his skin, tugging at it, stretching and threatening to break it, next.  Struggling only accomplished the same, and he felt blood well up before he whimpered, the fight wrung out of him, hands releasing their death grip on Bane’s arms.  Their hold loosened enough to let him breathe better, but still enveloped him, keeping him steady.  He clung to him to calm himself further, head tilting to the side as he felt a quick tongue at his neck, sweeping over the bite and clearing it of blood._
> 
> _“…You bit me,” he managed to croak out.  “You BIT me.”_
> 
> _Sitting up, Barsad perched on his knees between John’s and consequently Bane’s legs.  “You kicked me,” he replied simply, and John felt a little ashamed at the realization._
> 
> _“I’m sorry,” he panted, not quite settled yet, but getting there.  “I just…”_
> 
> _“You panicked,” Bane supplied when words failed him.  “We understand why, little one, but it must be worked with, controlled, so that your feelings do not become your master.”_
> 
> _John hung his head, nodding a little.  Bane had a way of gently correcting him that hurt worse than if he’d physically injured him to make his point.  “Yes, sir,” he meekly replied._
> 
> _“We are going to test your boundaries, little bird,” Barsad continued, hopping off the bed and returning with a wet cloth to clear the small amount of blood John’s nails had dug from Bane’s skin.  “How else are we to know where they lie, hmm?  Or you?”  He wiped John’s fingers clean, pressing their pads briefly to his lips, and it gave him a shiver, one that repeated at the feel of Bane’s mask at his neck and shoulder, its cool metal coils in sharp contrast to the heat of his body._
> 
> _With a rub to his stomach, Bane released him.  “I suggest we find a way for our boy to finish, so that his rest can be more complete.”_
> 
> _“…Finish?” John asked warily, still worried over the way his ass had been handled._
> 
> _Barsad nodded, cupping his cheek gently, though there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.  “Yes, finish… can you calm yourself to try one thing more?”  When he nodded in agreement, taking a careful breath to keep even that movement steady, Barsad smiled, sliding back from them both.  “Lie down?” he spoke at Bane, who eased John to the side before lowering himself with a grunt.  Despite both sporting minor injuries from John’s episode, they were each still quite hard when he caught sight of them.  Then again, knowing them, maybe that had somehow helped, instead of killing the mood._
> 
> _Without pausing to ask, John was grabbed up by Barsad, though his bottom was left alone this time, and he was put over Bane’s legs, straddling them.  By the time he’d settled into the position, getting his balance, Barsad had slipped in front of him, facing him and perched on Bane’s waist.  Their cocks were already nestled together, Barsad’s slender fingers wrapped loosely around them to hold them together._
> 
> _“Scoot forward, John… and you might feel better without your shorts, or at least with your cock out of them, hmm?”  It was so bluntly stated he felt his cheeks flush, but he scooted forward, inching closer again when beckoned.  He was almost pressed to them both, and he realized that was the idea, feeling a shudder and groaning at the thought of all of them joining his ready grip._
> 
> _At the last second, he managed to swallow the swear working its way out of his stomach. With a few moments’ hesitation for which they both sat so patiently, John finally took a breath for nerve and slipped a hand under the hem of his shorts, guiding his dick out and tucking the material carefully under his balls to keep it out of the way.  “…Okay.”_
> 
> _He couldn’t look them in the eyes right away.  They’d both touched him already, but only Talia had seen him totally naked. He didn’t measure up to the size of either of them, though he guessed Barsad’s was close to his.  Even though he knew that didn’t really matter, he couldn’t help it making him feel more uncertain._
> 
> _A hand grasped his chin and it was tilted up until he met Barsad’s eyes.  John had assumed there was a scolding or something like it coming, but he didn’t say anything.  Instead, he let go of his chin to take hold of John’s dick, guiding him forward as he held his gaze, until John bumped up against the two of them, already being held together in his grip.  Once he was released, he looked down to see all three of their cocks in Barsad’s hold, and he could feel the heat of theirs radiating out to his own, feel the friction when Barsad’s shifted._
> 
> _His eyes started to close until he gasped at the sharp pinch to his dick.  “Open,” he was instructed, and he did.  He kept his eyes open as Barsad started to roll his hips forward, his back bowed slightly to keep his cock firmly aimed forward._
> 
> _Shudders ran through John’s body, every muscle shaking as he watched and felt, as his own hips rocked forward, eager to feel as much of that maddening friction as he could.  It felt incredible, especially with the way Barsad’s hand was squeezing, pulsing, working the three of them over, but it was the idea of it that was going to push him over the edge.  The knowledge that all three of their cocks were actually grinding together was pounding through his brain, sending tremors down his spine, and he couldn’t even muster a warning when he came in a hot rush, shooting out over Barsad’s hand, his stomach, and dribbling onto the other two cocks in his hold._
> 
> _About to apologize, he only moaned out instead as the grip stayed the same, Barsad’s hand sliding along them and smearing his jizz all over them, using it like lube for the other two to finish with.  His legs felt too rubbery to hold him very well anymore, so he grasped at Bane’s, holding on as tightly as he could so his hips could stay forward, so he could feel the pressure slipping over his cock even as it felt spent for the moment.  His belly rose and fell with his quickened breathing, and he was mesmerized watching Barsad’s stomach as his muscles flexed to move him against Bane, a steady, practiced-looking rolling motion.  Bane’s hands had moved up to settled on his legs, his thick fingers running along Barsad’s thighs as they shifted._
> 
> _It wasn’t long after that Bane’s breathing became shallower, more harsh through the filter of the mask, and his grip on Barsad’s thighs tightened.  Strong fingertips dug deeply into his flesh, sending traces of a wince through Barsad’s features, but he didn’t make a single sound made by pain.  Nearly growling out, Bane’s hips rose up as he shot out, even with Barsad seated at his waist and John on his legs, jostling them both.  Barsad thumbed over the tip of his own cock quickly, shuddering at the sensation and seeming to grind his bottom down against Bane as he joined him, both of their cocks shooting off in spurts that Barsad, jerk he could be, aimed solidly at John’s stomach; they reached it, too._
> 
> _Breathless laughter followed over the indignant face he made at them, and by the time he’d been helped out of his position and they’d cleaned up, he felt calmed, much more even, and a lot more sleepy.  He curled up between them on the bed, his muscles relaxing at last as he was stroked over by their hands, practically being pet like a cat.  It wasn’t close to the time he’d normally head to bed, and he’d already had a short nap, but he found himself drifting off to sleep again, if just from feeling so comfortable.  They were gone when he woke up next, and gone still when he’d left for work, and while he wasn’t sure if his mood would still be so lowly sunken if they were still there, it certainly couldn’t have made it worse._

They sat in silence for a few moments before John got the nerve to change the subject back.  “You’re not wrong… about my throat…” he hesitated, but he felt more of a connection with Maddox now than he had since meeting him; it was a connection with himself, not his cover life.  “But I’m not gay,” he finished firmly.

Maddox laughed heartily, spreading his hands.  “Neither am I.”

That was the last either of them said on the subject, talking instead of less personal things, some business, sports which John only had a vague interest in following, and the kinds of random topics shaken out of minds loosened by alcohol.  John didn’t get drunk, at least he didn’t think he was drunk, but he admittedly felt tipsy, relaxed, and warm even with the night’s breeze when they at last stepped outside. 

“We’ll have to walk a few blocks down for a cab,” Maddox called over his shoulder as he led them down the sidewalk.  “Cabbies are ornery about coming down these streets after dark.”

John flipped the collar up on his coat, lighting a cigarette for the walk and keeping his eyes open, his attention on their surroundings.  It never ceased to amaze him how a street could change between day and night.  The darkness put away the life that existed during the daytime hours, and brought out an entirely different personality.  Corner-workers were out, calling out their self-selling ads, whistling for John and Maddox as they passed by. 

The alleys were dark, foreboding places with only a thin spear of filtered streetlight illuminating their floors.  Between the buildings rose an inky blackness, at times only the barest wisp of a fire escape balcony visible.  John knew exactly what lay concealed in such places; he’d spent enough time in them himself during the daytime refamiliarizing himself with the city and then again at night to gain what he hadn’t been able to as a child.  A city changed when the sun went down.

“Another block or two more and we should be set,” Maddox quietly told him, seeming jumpy as he walked.  If he spent a lot of nights at that bar, it was likely he knew a lot of what to expect from the shadows, as well.

After one more block, John could feel the fine hairs on the back of his neck start to rise, his skin prickling.  Someone was following them.  It was after that sensation that he first heard the stealthy footfalls of whoever was sneaking along the sidewalk after they passed over it.  Two sets.  He didn’t react right away; it wouldn’t do to give away that he knew, but also he had to be sure, had to be absolutely certain that whoever it was meant them harm before he responded.  He must always be sure.

They came up on an alley, and Maddox stopped short as a large man stepped out of the shadows, flanked by two smaller but still rather imposing men.  John stopped beside his friend, hearing their tails—he sensed more than one pattern of hushed movements—pause their steps a couple yards behind, and still he waited.

“Hey, faggots,” the lead man sneered as he eyed them.

He was sure.


	17. Chapter 17

One of the flanking two stepped up to throw a punch at Maddox, though John yanked him down over his knee, sending his elbow into the other man’s face.  He recoiled as blood spurted from his broken nose, and just like that, the other four came at John with angry growls in their throats.  In movies, the hero often won because the group of bad guys tended to attack him one-on-one, instead of using their advantage of numbers to overpower him.  Real life was not like the movies.

Here, John found himself facing five men all trying to get a piece of him as he tossed Maddox bodily to the side, feeling a little bad that he scraped against the pavement before scrambling at the wall of a building, but figuring a few scrapes would be appreciated if they replaced broken bones or worse.  He didn’t have time to make sure he was okay, or even the breath to tell him to run.  Everything else was shut out of his mind—work, the bar, Maddox, everything.  His movements were a little sluggish, making him regret that liquor he’d indulged in at the bar, and he also found himself briefly pissed that his freshly-lit cigarette had to be tossed away before that thought, too, was put out of his head. 

Training kicking in, his body reacted to each attack, taking only a moment or two to gauge the rhythms of each man before using them to his advantage to find the counter rhythm that intersected theirs, getting in through their defenses.  Not all blows could be avoided, not with four sets of hands and feet aimed his way—he was dimly aware of the fact that one of the men had broken away to deal with Maddox, but he couldn’t split his attention on that just yet.  Precise hits to disabling areas of his attackers’ bodies felled them faster than they could recover or get in any similar blows past his deflection, and after only a few moments he was kicking the last out of the way and turning to check on his friend.  He’d managed to knock out his man, but was doubled over clutching his stomach. 

John hadn’t seen any of the guys with a knife, but he immediately panicked all the same.  “Hey, hey.” He knelt down beside Maddox, checking his hands and jacket for blood.  “You alright?”

Maddox nodded, waving him off.  “Yeah, I’m good, just got the wind knocked out of me,” he assured him, standing up with the help of a hand on the wall behind him.  “Jesus, man,” he swore as he surveyed the guys sprawled out around them.

“C’mon,” John beckoned, “let’s get out of here before anybody gets a second wind, huh?”  He led Maddox away from the scene, heading two blocks over and managing to hail a cab, finally.  As they settled into the well-worn and stained seats inside, he shifted a bit uncomfortably under the other man’s scrutiny.  He was still feeling the adrenaline of the fight coursing through his veins, but it was waning, replaced by shaky limbs and an anxious twitching in his fingers.

Finally breaking the silence that had built its tension since directing the cabbie to his address, Maddox shifted in his seat to face John more fully, speaking quietly.  “How’d you do that, man?”  His eyes were focused intently on John’s.

“Self-defense classes,” John shrugged off, looking away at the buildings and streets as they passed.

Maddox was not convinced in the slightest.  “Nuh-uh,” he shook his head, “that wasn’t self-defense, that was bad-ass-kick-ass fighting moves.  I’m serious, O’Kelley, that was intense, impressive.”

John shrugged again, shifting his hands together, trying to force the shaking out of them.  No matter how many sparring sessions he’d gone through with League members, it felt completely different when his opponent was a stranger, was someone intent on actually harming him, possibly killing him, and threatening someone else, as well.  “It’s no big deal,” he lied, feeling the weight of the incident well enough, himself.

“Fuck that, ‘no big deal’,” Maddox exclaimed, getting a bored eyebrow raise from the cabbie for his volume.  It was ignored, though his voice settled a little, anyway.  “O’Kelley, that was crazy.  You saved my ass, saved both of our asses back there, and those were incredible moves, so damn fast.”  There was more silence as they approached Maddox’s building.  Finally, he seemed to work up the nerve and spoke again.  “Can you teach me some of that?  I… I could use it, sometimes, you know?”  He tried to demure, but Maddox looked so sincere that he found himself agreeing.

“Okay; sometime we’ll work at it, alright?”

Grinning even with a split lip, Maddox climbed out of the cab to head inside his building.  John let the guy drive a block or so before getting out, paying the fare and walking the rest of the way home.  He needed the cool-down time as well as the cigarette he lit with trembling fingers.  It took four clicks to get the lighter going.  Though he’d let the smell of smoke blow off him for the last block or so, he was actually kind of relieved that the apartment was empty when he got back to it.  He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want his nerves on display, and, to be honest, he felt, for once, like being alone.

____________________

Despite the fight, they went back to the same bar a couple of times that next week; though at John’s insistence they branched out to other parts of town, as well.  The outings were nice, kind of relaxing, and John couldn’t deny they made him feel a little bit normal, which he indulged for the moment.  He wasn’t, but he was enjoying the feel of it.  It wasn’t that he’d been avoiding home, avoiding them, it was just that, well… he’d been avoiding them a little bit.  Having the evening to smoke and sip on a relaxing glass helped with the tension around the offices, as well as the tension in John from knowing just how much was riding on the move that had nothing to do with Gotham’s financial district and its status quo.  He kept a close eye on Daggett when he could, but the man had become harder to read, and that worried John.

It was during one of their random bar hops that week that he saw her.  At least, he was pretty damn sure it was her, at first.  Her hair was different, no longer tied into those musical braids and beads but straightened, smooth and softly curled as it hit her shoulder blades.  She was older, and dressed like she was out for a fancy night on the town, very different from anything he’d ever seen her in, but he was sure it was her.  She was at one of the horseshoe-shaped booths that ran along the back wall of the place, seated at the top of the curve and flanked on both sides by a group of men that had to be twice her age.  But she was laughing, seemed to be flirting with them, sipping sparingly on a tall, thin glass one of the men had pushed at her.  The smile, though, the laugh… neither reached her eyes, and John knew a practiced smile when he saw one.  Maybe she was trapped, maybe she was in trouble, maybe—

One of the men settled a hand on her knee, started to slide it up her thigh, and John burst out of his chair before he could pause to think better of it.

“Tami!” he called out as he approached her table.  Not one of the men with her even glanced in his direction, but her head turned slowly, her eyes flicking languidly to meet his.  In a moment, as he stopped several feet away, he could see the recognition in her face; she remembered him.  It had been ten years since he had seen her, ten years since she’d worried over him, said she’d watch out for him if she saw him around, and now it looked as if she was the one who could have used some looking out for. 

The men around her continued their conversations, completely ignoring John even when he rushed up to the side of their table.  “Tami, what…” he swallowed his words in a dry throat, not even sure what to say.  She just smiled that fake smile.

“Hello, John.”  Even her voice sounded smoother, almost honeyed.  “I see you’re doing well.”  She nodded her head to indicate his work suit, and he nodded dumbly.  “We’ll have to catch up sometime,” she offered, but it was a brush-off and he knew it.  Her posture remained steady, her face carefully controlled, and there was no room for arguing the fact she didn’t want to talk to him right then.

Brows knitting together in concern, he mumbled something hardly intelligible before walking awkwardly back over to Maddox.

“Dude, what was _that_?” Maddox was already working on his drink, looking at John like he’d just gone off the deep end.  “You know her or something?”

Running a hand over his face as he glanced back over at her table, he nodded.  “Yeah, but a long time ago… went to the same school for a while.”  It sounded trivial said that way, not allowing for any of the connection he’d felt with her then, but explaining that would have required sharing much more of his actual life story than he cared to have even Maddox know about.

“So I guess you haven’t seen her in a while, then?”  Maddox was watching her, too, only his eyes were harder, difficult to read at first, though John thought he saw pity in them.  The look was always distasteful to him, and he especially didn’t like it directed at her.

“Something like ten years, yeah…  A long time.”  There were two different hands on her thighs, now, and it took every ounce of self control John had learned over the years to stay in his seat, to not march right back over there and knock out each of the old guys who were touching her like they owned her, like she was theirs.  It brought dark thoughts into his head, and he could see the tinge of red in his vision. 

The voice that cut through it was gentle, hesitant, but unapologetic.  “She’s an escort girl, John.  I’ve seen her around here a lot with those kinds of guys.  Far beyond my pay grade.”  He held up his hands in defense when John turned on him, eyes flashing hotly at the remark.  “Hey, I’m not meaning anything by it, I’m just saying, okay?  She’s high class.”

None of it was sitting well in John’s stomach.  In fact, it was making it turn over in a sickly spin.  What had happened in to last ten years that had led Tami to prostitution?  There were worse places to end up, he knew, but she’d been smart, had been determined, and even in the poorer neighborhood they’d been in, he’d thought if anyone would, she’d get out someday. 

Seeing her there, her of all people, reminded him of all that was wrong with the city, all that he had to work to fix.  Trying to fight an epidemic by fixing one case at a time wouldn’t work, he knew—you had to strike wide, at the source—but maybe he could find a way to help, even so.  “She’s here a lot, then?” he asked Maddox, managing to keep his voice level, tearing his eyes away from the display across the room and sending them sweeping around the bar’s interior, over its people, reminding himself that there was so much more going on, going wrong, than just that one table.                

He spotted an older socialite, probably in his sixties, fancy suit, clearly up in the world, complete with a shiny gold wedding band and yet there he was chatting up two young girls who hardly looked past jailbait, their hair teased into loops, dresses revealing enough of their curves to spark the imagination.  They were probably there for the same reason as Tami, he realized, though he didn’t find her as obvious—he quickly reminded himself to check his bias before it tainted any more observations.  There were others, too, some betting on races or games playing on the TVs, others speaking in hushed tones in corners and passing envelopes back and forth as if nothing were amiss, though everyone in the room could tell a transaction when they saw one.  The difference was that no one in the room cared; they were all on the same level, and snitching on their own kind was tantamount to self-destruction. 

He’d gone cold again by the time he heard Maddox respond.  “When I’m in here, I see her a lot, yeah, and the staff seems to know her pretty well.  But she’s working when she’s here, John,” he added more softly, trying not to have it hit him sharply, using his first name again to ease the blow, and it was a kind thought, though it did little good.  “I don’t know where she goes when she’s _not_ working, but I could see if I could find out, if you’re looking to catch up with her or something.”

John found himself nodding.  Maddox would be able to get that kind of information in less conspicuous ways than he could, so it would be better to let him follow through.  He’d been raised to respect sex workers along with everyone else, both those who’d been driven to it and those who chose it, and he’d even had his hooker savings, but seeing someone he knew in that position, knowing she’d gotten into that, made the whole thing completely different in his head.  He doubted he could ever look at it quite the same way again.


	18. Chapter 18

They didn’t see her the next time they hit that bar, but John wasn’t paying much attention to the other patrons, anyway.  The company would make its move the next day.  He hadn’t seen Talia in several days, with so much string-pulling and careful arranging to make certain that everything was prepared, that her majority was unchallenged even before it was gained.  Even so, John worried.  He had a sinking sense in the pit of his stomach that it wouldn’t work, that something major was going to go wrong, was going to happen, but he didn’t know what to expect.  Nevertheless, it plagued his thoughts, kept him from sleeping.  It didn’t help that Bane and Barsad had been busy during the nights, only present in the early daylight hours when John was getting up and ready to leave for the office.  While it was good to wake up to their bodies in his bed, there was no comparison to falling asleep in their arms.  He missed it terribly.

So he drank more that night, went to a second bar and sang terrible karaoke with strangers while Maddox howled in mock pain—or perhaps not completely mocked.  The night let off a lot of steam, and he poured himself into bed after barely making it to his apartment—with Maddox’s help—passing out face-down on his pillow without so much as tossing his jacket on the chair. 

He woke to fingers snapping in his face, garbled words reverberating through his skull, pounding and making the world shake.  Was he somehow underwater?  He didn’t remember anything that would have made sense with that, though, and he could breathe, tested it with a large gulp of air that seemed to go straight to his head, dizzying him and aching it further.  Opening his eyes, he immediately shut them again, the lamplight far too bright, shooting stabbing barbs straight through to the back of his head, making the pounding so much worse.

Finally, he heard his name emerge from the din, and felt a quick slap against his cheek, and he squinted, half-alert at least.  “What…” he croaked, “too early for work.”

“Are you drunk, John?”

“No, I’m asleep.”  It was half true, and he couldn’t help the smallest giggle from bubbling up in his throat. 

The question was repeated, more forcefully, not patiently, and he groaned. 

“Maybe… just a little… mostly, I’m asleep.  Can’t I just be asleep?  Please?”  Keeping his eyes mostly closed, he repositioned his cheek on the pillow so his head felt a little less like needles were stabbing it where the hammers weren’t already doing their worst. 

“Why are you drunk?” the flat voice asked.

“Because I drank,” he drew the words out slowly, lazily, and was aware that they slurred, but couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.  He definitely cared about his hair getting pulled, though; that was downright rude.  “Ow!” he hissed.

“I am not amused, John.”

“Yeah, it’s not funny… that hurt.”  The sass in his words got him another yank, and a sharp slap to his upturned rump, but he didn’t have the energy even to take them back.

“Sit up.”

“No,” he drawled out, “last time I did that, it spun.”  He could imagine doing it, and just the thought of moving his body right then had his head spinning on the inside.  “Can’t I just lie here and be drunk?  Please?”

There was an unamused snort from above him as the side of the bed dipped down from Barsad sitting.  “Which is it, Éinín; drunk or asleep?”

“It’s both,” he pouted, risking one eye opening to peer up at Barsad.  “I can be both, right?”  A hand came to rest between his shoulder blades.  It was warm, and he wiggled carefully beneath it, not wanting it to leave. 

“You are speaking, therefore you are not asleep.”

“Well that’s bad logic,” he argued.  “You talk in your sleep, sometimes.”  The response seemed to surprise Barsad, and the quiet moment had him a little worried he was going to get another spank or hair tug, but he only laughed quietly.

“I suppose that is true.”  It was, after all.  “Now, explain yourself, even if you are asleep, little bird.  Coming home drunk, put to bed by a coworker, does not suit you.”  So they knew Maddox had brought him in.  Damn.  And damn again, because he wasn’t sure their supplies had been put away when he’d come in.  He couldn’t be certain what Maddox might have seen.  He hoped nothing.  Then he wondered if they’d actually been home when he had come in, and he just hadn’t noticed.  That would have been worse.

“We saw your friend.”  Yeah; it was worse.

John groaned, covering his one exposed eye with the back of his hand.  “He’s not a _friend_ , I just work with him,” he corrected, really wanting to roll over and curl in on himself, but knowing he’d just get turned back to face him.

Barsad scoffed lightly at him.  “You see this man every day, talk with him outside of work hours, and have just spent the last week going to bars with his company.”  Well, when he had to go and put it _that_ way.  “I am sorry to disappoint you, little bird, but he is your friend.  Coworkers do not practically carry one another into each other’s apartments and then make certain someone is going to watch over the other.”

“Wait, _he_ saw _you_?”  That had him more awake.  And immediately more concerned.

“Yes, John,” Barsad answered quietly.  “And he was quite relieved you wouldn’t be alone.”  He gave a reassuring stroke through John’s hair, speaking up again when John started to question suddenly.  “No, Bane was not seen or met by him.”

“Great, then he’s just going to think it’s _you_ ,” he groaned out before he could think better of it and bite it back.  It was true, though; if Maddox had met Barsad last night, in John’s apartment, it wouldn’t matter how he introduced himself—except, ironically, if he’d done so as ‘John’s dad’—Maddox would have to have assumed that he was the one John had gone hoarse sucking off.  Well, that added to his general sense of embarrassment.

“ _Who_ is going to think _what_ is him?” came the deeper-voiced question from the doorway as Bane stepped through.  Even at the risk of being turned back over, John curled up tightly, hiding his face under his arms, pulling up his knees against his chest. 

His answer was muffled, more muttered than spoken because he really didn’t want to answer at all.  “The one I sucked off to get a sore throat,” he complained.  Despite his being fairly certain that he couldn’t have been heard, Barsad laughed loudly enough that that certainty was quickly shot down.  “He guessed; he could tell…”  He kept his head covered since it didn’t seem to matter, since he could still hear him.

He got a pat on the shoulder for his mortification before the conversation turned back to a much more serious reminder that drinking was one thing, and would be discussed again later, but letting himself get drunk was unacceptable.  It impaired his judgment, damaged his faculties, and would not help their cause. 

When he sobered, he was instructed to complete a number of training exercises that Bane wrote down on a list for him to follow later that day.  Enough had been written on the paper that even as he settled down to sleep the rest off, he worried just how late he’d be out after work throwing himself around the city.  No bar that night.  That part was definitely by their design and probably for the best, after all, since the big day was happening.  The company officially went public for the share-purchasing in just six short hours, and no matter how it went down, there would be a lot of work for John over the following days.

On the technical side, everything went smoothly that day.  Funds transferred, credits and shares were distributed as they were claimed, and it all happened neatly, though in a rapid scramble, through carefully controlled electronic transactions.  John and all of those charged with editing records knew that elsewhere, on the trade flood, in other, more important offices and private penthouses, the frenzy would have been much more evident, if in a different way.  As it was, the floor nearly let out a cheer when the last purchase went through and cleared, when one hundred percent of Wayne Enterprises was split and gobbled up by greedy-fingered corporations, trust-fund babies and any other corporate mogul with sticky fingers reaching into the pot. 

Maddox had made enough noise himself, whooping with his fist in the air, getting a few laughs from the cubicles before the floor supervisor reminded them that the work day didn’t magically end from one set of mass transactions—that it, in fact, only made _more_ work for their lot.  John hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to him yet, to ask him about the night before, and it looked like it was going to be a working lunch, as well.  Maybe that was for the best, anyway, maybe he could just go past it without it even being mentioned—fat chance of that either way, he knew.  It was just delayed, this way. 

They wouldn’t know the official results of the transactions until the next day, when all of the paperwork had been completed and processed.  Ideally, and as they’d taken careful measures to ensure, Talia would emerge the majority shareholder as Miranda Tate, and would have her avenue to take control of the company’s assets.  There shouldn’t have been anything standing in their way, even with Wayne hanging around the last couple of weeks.  As far as John was concerned, the guy had to be far too busy playing nighttime vigilante superhero ninja to have any part of his rich-boy head worried about politics and business matters. 

Of course he was present that day, but that didn’t mean anything; it made sense he’d stick around to see how his father’s company was faring and how well his fluffy trust fund was going to stay full.  Wayne used to be someone John would have looked up to, idolized, made up stories about as someone who did okay for himself; he was a billionaire orphan, for Christ’s sake.  But John had seen too much of the world since then, knew too much of the underbelly of rich society, of how much even idle money, ill-applied power could add to the plague of corruption they were trying to purge.  There was no denying he felt a kinship of a sort, that spark of a connection between them from sharing a violent beginning, a loss that changed a person permanently, but that was it, anymore. 

So he didn’t whisper with the others, didn’t give the same stares, though he kept his eyes on the man all the same.  Taking a chance he wouldn’t be missed too terribly, he followed him to one of the more proper café lunchrooms when he saw him duck inside.  It wasn’t empty; in fact it was full of people much like himself who were trying to catch a quick break before being forced back to the rest of their work day.  There was little chance he’d get to talk to Wayne who was chatting it up with a couple of executive secretaries, looking a lot like Maddox in his own way, though a lot more fake even after what John knew of his desk mate.  He didn’t do anything interesting, didn’t draw any undue attention to himself, and John was at least grateful he got coffee out of the deal by the time he shadowed the guy back out into the hall. 

He heard the first as he stepped over the threshold.

It was an eerie sound when it was indoors, but there was no mistaking it as a gunshot.  The electric crackling and sparks flying from the overhead light the shot had hit quickly followed, and the hall erupted into screams.  Instinctively, John turned toward where the fire had come from, matching the sound with the trajectory it had to have travelled to hit the light, and found his view was blocked by a sea of frightened people, including Wayne, though he wasn’t in motion.  He was standing, scanning the hall as calmly as John hoped he was. 

Another scream split the air, louder, closer, as a woman next to John was hit, sent to the floor with a rapidly expanding circle of blood oozing into her blouse.  John couldn’t tell if she was going to bleed out, but he couldn’t stop to help her.  Instead, he stood, made his way toward Wayne, hoping to plan with him, figuring the two of them were the best bets to handle things, if he was really handling Gotham’s criminal nightlife so well.

They didn’t get a chance to say one word to each other.  He barely heard them, only registering their concussions through the air, but a handful of gunshots ripped out toward them.  Catching the fact that one had been sent into Wayne’s shoulder, sending him into the wall, John wasn’t sure at first how they both ended up on the floor, how the world suddenly went soundless, silent as a figure dressed in black retreated up into the ceiling, looking back only once before sliding the paneling back into place.  It hadn’t been there at first, but in a rush he could feel pain explode in his chest, his stomach, and his leg. 

Someone was over him then, it taking a moment for him to recognize the face as Maddox’s, his mouth moving like he was shouting his name, but he heard nothing.  He could feel cold, and his fingers and toes had started to tingle, going numb once the aftermath of bursting pain had retreated, coiled inward towards his core.  His body shifted without his permission, slumping down next to a suited body by the time his vision dimmed.  It was a black tunnel closing in, and the world above him swirled a blurry, violent whirlpool into darkness, into nothingness.


	19. Chapter 19

_When he opened his eyes, he saw that the clouds had shifted, the sun having risen higher in the sky, and realized he must have dozed off.  It was easy to do while lying out amidst the tall grass of the field, a gentle, cool mountain breeze ruffling his hair.  He’d spent the night training on the rocks with several other newer recruits, having led his team to victory in the small war game.  The victors had earned a day of rest, and he had decided how he would spend it before the game had even begun.  Once mutual appreciations were given, he had put away his equipment and made his way down the mountain side in time to watch the sun come up over the valley below.  Even with the new day’s light, however, he’d been tired enough that once he’d lain back to watch the gilded clouds float past, it seemed he’d fallen asleep without even sensing its approach.  That wasn’t the best thing to happen so out in the open, but at least he was alone._

_“Taking a nap, little bird?”_

_Or not alone.  John sighed as he sat up, rubbing over his face and looking up to see Barsad standing over him, looking amused._

_“I hear you won your match,” he spoke with a small measure of pride in his voice.  It made John’s heart swell to hear it aimed at him._

_He nodded, trying hard to remain humble, to not boast or present an air of self-importance.  “The team performed well,” was his careful reply, and he smiled at the approving nod it received.  Barsad lowered himself to sit beside him, and John leaned into him, facing the sprawling valley below.  It wasn’t a great view of human existence, most of the villages in sight lived in squalor and barely persevered, but there was a wide expanse to be seen, a chance for growth in better directions, the promise of a chance for the world to reclaim itself.  He’d never known there could be such beauty in the world until they’d come here._

_With an indulgent kiss to the top of his head, Barsad lay back on the grass, hooking his hands behind his head and shifting to find a comfortable position.  John giggled slightly watching him.  “Is this how you were, Éinín?”  He didn’t use the name around the other league members, only when they were alone, when it wouldn’t show any sort of favoritism between them._

_“Hmm,” he feigned concentration, studying his form and posture.  “I was more relaxed; you’re too tense.”  He found himself tackled to the ground in an instant, but only burst into laughter instead of fending off the attack; the choice got his sides tickled until he was far too breathless to laugh any more._

_They settled after, John’s head laid on Barsad’s chest and his arm draped lazily over John’s stomach, watching the sky together as it shifted far above them.  The quiet was relaxing, and it got John’s mind working curiously at things it usually didn’t have time for, things he hadn’t really wondered about until more recently._

_Toying at the fingers laying over his belly with his own more slender ones, he blurted out his question.  “Did you know Bane… before he had to wear a mask?”_

_He had been given what he knew to be a shortened version of each of their histories; it was obvious that they were holding back, probably trying not to overwhelm him with too much information, or thinking he wasn’t able to handle it, but he was older now, and wanted to know more.  It wasn’t until arriving in the mountains that he’d even been told the story of the Pit, understanding immediately that it was a set of events, an experience and trial that ultimately shaped who both Bane and Talia were in life.  The knowledge made him see them both in a new light, brought further understanding of their personalities, their beliefs as well as their devotion to each other.  Barsad’s name hadn’t come up in that story, and he’d already been told that he’d joined the League at an age that placed it in time after Talia’s escape, but there was also more to every story he’d been told._

_It was also undeniable that a certain amount of romanticism had entered his head in the last couple of years.  Nothing overly sappy, but he thought about relationships a lot more than he used to.  The league and its fellow members held a measure of devotion that he could see in his dads, but theirs went even deeper, even if they never said the words to each other—at least in front of John.  The two of them being together had simply been so much a constant in his life that it took him years to wonder how it was they’d met._

_Though he couldn’t see it, John could hear Barsad’s smile in his voice.  The shape of it was familiar to him, ticked up on the edges, forming lines in his cheeks not quite like the dimples in John’s.  “Aye,” Barsad spoke softly, squeezing at John’s fingers as they fiddled over his.  “Long before, actually, when we were quite young.”_

_Squirming on the grass, twisting and craning his neck to look back at him, John smiled.  “Really?”_

_“Mm,” Barsad confirmed, ruffling his hair.  He glanced down at him before turning his eyes back towards the sky, and it was clear he wasn’t only seeing the clouds anymore.  “We didn’t come from the same village, but both were born near the same larger city.  When there were troubles, like I told you about long ago, we each found ourselves affected by them even as bystanders… I suppose there is something in us both that caused us to fight back, to rise even then against the currents.”_

_“Like a resistance?”_

_Barsad nodded, John felt it against his temple as he watched the sky again.  “We knew each other briefly, barely schoolboys at the time, mere children having seen nothing of the world.”  His fingers laced through with John’s, holding them.  “He was sent away around the time the troubles settled, a bargain to keep his father from a hellish prison for his conspiracy crimes.”  There was a bite to Barsad’s voice that John rarely heard, a venom that it seemed would likely fell whomever it was directed toward.  “I only saw him again lifetimes later, after years of the military while he rotted in a dark, cold hell.”_

_“You couldn’t have done anything, though,” John pointed out quietly, sensing the bitter regret in his tone.  It got him a squeeze and a scratchy kiss to the top of his head._

_“Thank you, Éinín.”  It wasn’t new information, John hadn’t told him anything he hadn’t ever thought through or likely been told by Bane, but it was the support, he knew, that was appreciated, the care._

_He hadn’t said it in so long, now… the term had been exchanged for one befitting equality, and even in private, Barsad had encouraged him to keep up with his training.  Still, in such a quiet moment, far enough from the walls of the fortress that they truly felt alone, need arose in him again.  “I love you, daddy,” he spoke softly towards the sky._

_The arm around him tightened its hold, slender fingers leaving his and curling around the top of his arm, pulling him further over his chest.  “I love you, too, Éinín,” his soft voice replied._

_The sky darkened then, to stars, to an unlit ceiling, and the ground beneath his back softened, sinking down until there was a blanket covering him.  He was snug in bed, and it was no longer daytime.  He was not on the mountain, but at home, his first home, the tiny little room that held nothing but his bed and a window.  Barsad was there, leaning over him, tucking him in, kissing his temple and saying, “Goodnight, my little bird.”_

_But the voice was not his dad’s; it was his father’s, his real father’s—except they were both real.  His face shifted, then, from the well-kept ruddy beard and cut cheekbones to the rounder features and shade of sleepless scruff that hazed his father’s face.  He looked worried, nervous, a look John knew well on his face._

_“My Robin,” he spoke fondly, sifting through John’s hair.  “It’s good to see you again.”_

_Startled, John looked up sharply, searching his father’s face curiously.  “Again?” he couldn’t help asking, and when he heard his voice, he realized he wasn’t in a memory.  This wasn’t his childhood, but something else, and he had his body now.  His father was seeing him as he was now.  At least, in his head._

_“You’ve grown so much,” he responded, a harried smile slowly smoothing, the lines on his face—premature at his age—disappearing as he looked at last peaceful.  “Your mother couldn’t come, Robbie, there wasn’t enough time, but we love you.  We love you so much, but it’s time to go, now.  Be a good boy, Robbie… be a good man.”_

_“Wait!” he shouted, but the room was already fading, his father looking farther and farther away until he was gone, and John was alone again._

____________________

There was a beeping he was aware of, but his own consciousness was a vaporous thing, and the beeping a distant one, a far away sound he couldn’t quite grasp onto or hold in his head even though it passed by his ears every few moments, or longer, or maybe shorter, he really couldn’t tell.  Time wasn’t making itself available, but hiding, sneaking around in the dark and spying, yet there all the same for its deceit.  There were other sounds, and glimpses of images, but he suspected they were more memories, not the present.

A frustrated, angry voice paced back and forth in his head.  _“I’d better get mine,”_ it fumed.  _“You’re going to follow through if you know what’s good for you.  I won’t bow to that bitch, and no one’s kowtowing just because the prodigal son’s suddenly showed up.”_   He knew the face it went to, but it was muddied over in his head, obscured.  _“She has a lot of nerve acting like she’s going to get anything out of this unless she’s sleeping with someone on the board.  It sure as hell isn’t me.”_   Daggett.  The name floated to him then, and he knew the words had been about Miranda Tate, about Talia, but the rest was fuzzy, too unclear with everything else flitting through his scattered thoughts, getting in the way.

Tami drifted in his mind’s eye for a moment, dashed like smoke a second later by Talia.  Then it was Bane, standing over him, looking displeased, and then again it dissolved to Maddox’s concerned face peering over him.  Like waking from a nightmare or a fitful sleep, he startled back to consciousness. 

The bed he was in was not his own, and there were wires snaking down his arms, connecting him with the source of the beeping that had penetrated his dreams; a machine on a cart, complete with readout screens and tiny, flashing lights.

A hospital.

It took effort just to turn his head, his eyes aching as they scanned the dim room.  Thin curtains met his gaze, the tray table beside his legs, and finally the chair tucked up close to the edge of the railing that ran the length of the mattress.  In it was a curled up form, legs bent and drawn up as it slept, its face not relaxed in its sleep but pinched with worry.

Barsad.

Working his mouth, he tried to speak, but it didn’t go so well.  At first, nothing came out at all, then a croak, then a squeak he was actually relieved it seemed no one heard, before at last he managed to force out actual words.

“Bar… sad…  Barsad…”  It took a couple of tries, but he got the name out at last.  The effort had him tired when he was pretty sure he’d been asleep for a long while already, but it was worth it; it woke him up. 

Jostling upright so quickly that he nearly toppled off the chair, grimacing momentarily and looking sore in his limbs from his curled position, Barsad looked over, his eyes widening in concern and relief.  In an instant, he was seated beside John on the bed, running his fingers through his hair, over his face, hushed, desperate whispers he could only vaguely translate washing over John.

“I’m oka-ay,” his still-broken voice eased out as he weakly held up a couple of fingers.  Swallowing, this time with more success, he spoke again, more clearly.  “I’m okay.  What happened?”  Strange memories filtered through his mind, not making sense, a puzzle missing pieces.  “Did… did I get shot?”  That much he thought he could gather.

Barsad nodded, the light in his eyes dim, dark, and very angry.  “Yes, Éinín, as well as several others, including Wayne.”  Despite the relief at seeing him awake, there was a grim set to his mouth, tightness in his posture, and John didn’t like it. 

“Was… was someone… trying to get Wayne?” he managed to get out with faltering breath.  Blackness threatened to swallow the room again, and he tried hard to push it back, to focus on Barsad, on the hands firmly holding his.

The curtain was whipped back suddenly, and they were joined by a nurse holding a clipboard and pushing a small roller cart full of various medical items he couldn’t possibly attempt to identify in his current state, though his mind tried regardless.  “He shouldn’t be talking,” the young man admonished Barsad.  “He needs to rest.  Welcome back, by the way,” he added to John in a much more friendly, soothing tone.

John tried to wave off the concern, but found he couldn’t make his arms obey him any more than a pathetic twitch in Barsad’s hold.  “…’m fine,” he slurred, willing the room to stay still long enough for him to focus on the nurse, on Barsad, on, well, anything would do at the moment, really.  His head rested back heavily on the pillow when he tried, and failed, to lift it.

“Easy, easy, tiger,” came the voice suddenly right above him.  A large, warm hand rested on his shoulder, easing him to lie back, and he let it.  “Get your strength back first, then you can tell me what is and yell at me all you want, deal?”

Barsad stayed quiet, and John nodded silently, as much as he could, before he let the darkness come back, encircling him in its enveloping hold.


	20. Chapter 20

A pinprick awoke him, and he opened his eyes to the sight of blood bubbling up out of his arm and into a tiny vial.  His first instinct was to fight back, but his brain registered just in time that he wasn’t being attacked, that there was a nurse there again, and the blood was probably for a test or something.  Working his dry lips, it hurt to talk.  “Water?”

A cup was at his mouth in an instant, Barsad kneeling on the edge of the bed.  He tipped the small paper cup gently, slowly, so John could take small sips, though some still dripped down his chin. 

“Thanks,” he scratched out, his voice still hoarse from disuse and sleep.  “How long was I out?”  Talking was a lot easier when his mouth was wet.

“If you do not count your brief spell of wakefulness,” Barsad answered, “two days.”

“Jesus…”  When no cuff came for the curse, he knew the man had been seriously worried over it.  He would have been, too, he knew, if their roles were reversed and it was Barsad laid up.  “Bane?...”

“…Wishes he could be here, Éinín, but…” his eyes flicked to the nurse, ‘James’ by his nametag, before continuing, “business has kept him away.”  The mask would keep him out of the hospital, John knew.  It was suspicious, unique, and though his notoriety remained primarily among groups who couldn’t point a finger without pointing the rest at themselves, it didn’t serve him to show his face in public, even for something like this.

His nurse paused, almost imperceptibly, but John caught it all the same.  It was a fair assumption that a number of people ended up in Gotham’s hospitals because of ‘business,’ and not the kind John dealt with during the day.  The guy was probably wise to keep his mouth shut as he finished up with John’s arm, taping a piece of gauze over the hole he’d made.

“Shouldn’t need to stab you again, at least for a while,” James assured him with a smile and a pat to John’s forearm.  “Now that you’re awake, the doctor will want to see you, so expect a visit in the morning, okay?”

John nodded, and the guy left with his little basket of blood-gathering supplies, not the happiest basket John had ever seen; though the fact he was analyzing the contentment level of an inanimate object had him wondering what exactly they had him on for his pain.  At the sound of muffled clicks, he turned back to look at Barsad, who was just sliding his cell phone closed.  “Bane?” he asked again, this time meaning the text.

Barsad nodded.  “Letting him know you woke again.”

“When do I get to leave?”  He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer once he saw the ever-so-slight flick in Barsad’s eyes.

“I am sure the doctor will give us an estimate when she returns,” he spoke carefully.  He didn’t give him much more to go on, but gently broke the news that his leg would likely take a good while to heal, as the bullet had splintered part of the bone in his thigh.  There had been fragments that had required surgery to remove, and a small plate now took their place to keep the bone strong.  Given the location, John was lucky he hadn’t bled out from any nicks to his artery.

Learning about the break, for the first time John noticed the rather large cast that ran from his foot to the top of his thigh.  He couldn’t really feel it, not like he would have expected to, anyway, but he could tell it was heavy and wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon— _just like me_ , he thought a little bitterly.

Pointing out the raccoon-like circles under Barsad’s eyes, he made him promise he’d get some sleep while John did, still too exhausted somehow, or maybe too doped up to keep awake for too long.  Either way, he caught a couple of hours of sleep before daybreak.

____________________

He was still far too drugged the first time the cop came by.  A slurred and sleepy greeting had been all he’d gotten out, and he barely remembered that as it was.  Resting his eyes after James changed the dressing on his shoulder and stomach, he felt his hand squeezed suddenly.  When he opened to see what Barsad wanted, he was directed to look over to the other side of the room, finding a man there in a suit, trench coat over his arm, and a pair of thick-framed glasses on his face.

Despite having seen his face on TV a couple of times, being interviewed by the press, he didn’t recognize him until he introduced himself.  “Afternoon, Mr. O’Kelley,” he spoke from the door.  “My name is Sergeant Gordon; Jim,” he amended after a moment.  Flicking his gaze to Barsad and then back to John, he finished, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened at the Wayne building, if that’s alright.”

It shouldn’t have surprised him, it was probably standard procedure to interview victims—he had a hard time using that word for himself, despite having been shot—but it still made him nervous.  He could hear the heart rate monitor beside him speed its beeping slightly before he forced himself to calm down, working to get the rhythm back to normal.

Gordon held up a hand.  “It’s alright, son… Only what you feel comfortable with.  You’re my best witness if you can help at all, but we’ll take it slow.”

Barsad gave his hand another squeeze.  “I will go for coffee,” he said, his eyes firmly on John’s in encouragement.  “Do you want anything?”

_To go home,_ John thought dryly, but knew better than to say it.  He’d be out soon enough, if all went well, according to the doctor who’d stopped in.  “No,” he answered instead.  “I’m fine, thanks.”  He shot Barsad a look meant to convince him to behave while the sergeant was there.

With a nod to each of them, Barsad stood and left him alone with the sergeant.  The guy was fairly young, probably less than a decade past Barsad, but he walked with a weight on him, not too heavy, not enough to stoop his shoulders like some people, but John could sense it all the same.  He wondered if he was the lead in the investigation or just the one getting statements.

Raising the bed more in the back and dragging himself to sit upright, John waited for the questions, trying not to let the anticipation stress him.

The sergeant sat, pulling a small notepad and pencil from his coat and clearing his throat.  “There were a lot of people in the hall that day,” he began, “but no one I’ve talked to has been able to tell me much other than that shots broke out and everyone went berserk.”

“Have you talked to Wayne yet?” he couldn’t help interrupting to ask, though he truly wondered if the guy would feign a lack of memory in order to catch the shooter himself, given his current hobby.

Nodding, Gordon tapped his notes absently.  “We did, but he said he was focused on one of the secretaries he was speaking with, and was caught completely by surprise, not seeing anything until he was already hit.”  Oh.  Or maybe he was straight up lying, because he hadn’t been chatting up the girls once he had left the lounge.  That was it, though… Bruce Wayne would have to keep a persona, something to distract from his night life.  Clever, really; it was another mask he formed, like John’s life in Gotham.

“Well, I’ll do what I can,” John assured.

“That’s all I can ask, son.  So what were you doing just before the shots were fired?” he asked, pencil poised to record John’s answers.  He wasn’t sure he liked being called ‘son’ by a near-stranger, but the man had a kind way about him that made it not seem creepy or demeaning, so he let it go. 

“I was in the hall outside the lounge,” he began.  Shit, the lounge he technically wasn’t supposed to have been in.  “The one down a couple floors was out of bagels,” he lied with a fabricated smile of chagrin.  Gordon chuckled lightly, taking it for sincere enough, so he continued, “I was just leaving it, really, and I think Wayne was a few paces ahead, when the first shot hit the wall behind us, and everyone started screaming.”

Gordon looked up, then, adjusting his glasses, making sure John was okay to continue, he supposed.  Surprisingly, he was.  When he let the scene play back in his head, he saw it analytically, not emotionally like he had when he’d quietly filled Barsad in the previous day, and he wasn’t connected to it in the same way.  It was like watching a playback on TV, not his own memory.

“There were about a dozen other people in the hall, most on the other side of us from the shooter, and they all ran.  One knocked me into Wayne as I stepped away, trying to get a look down the hall.”  He found himself squinting as he stared into space, as if that would help clear his mind’s vision of the past.  “He was dressed in black, covered, really, a black scarf or a hood around his head,” he gestured with his uninjured hand to illustrate the point.  “It was an assault rifle, semi-automatic, not a pistol or a handgun…” _but I guess you know that_ , he thought without saying it.  “After I got hit, I saw him climb up into the ceiling panel, but that was the last I saw,” he finished, spreading his hands.  “Probably doesn’t help too much, I guess.”

“On the contrary, son,” Gordon began as he scratched away at the notepad.  “You’ve got a real level head to keep all that straight.  And a good eye… You ever think about detective work?”

The question startled him.  Who asked that?  “Uh… I… no, not really…”

Gordon handed him a card.  “If you ever change your mind, give me a call; I’ll see what I can do for you.”

John took the very official-looking card, Gotham PD’s seal emblazoned in the corner, Sergeant Gordon’s name and phone number in the middle.  He hadn’t gotten a business card since carrying around his social worker’s, years go.  It was kind of weird.

“Yeah,” he spoke anyway.  “I’ll keep it in mind.”  He had no intention to, of course.

“If you think of anything else from that day, give me a call, too, okay, son?”

John nodded, assuring him that he would.  Impeccable timing as always, most likely from having been standing outside the door unseen in the hallway, Barsad returned as the sergeant was stepping out.

“Afternoon, sergeant,” he greeted politely, making John chuckle at how different he sounded.

Once Gordon was gone and Barsad had resettled, John smirked tiredly at him.  “Such a good citizen,” he teased.

“The best,” Barsad agreed solemnly. 

____________________

The fourth day, he found himself alone for a few hours when Barsad had to take care of some things with Bane.  In all probability, one of those things had to be _fucking_ Bane, and he definitely couldn’t begrudge either of them their time together.  It had to be hard; he knew they didn’t separate much, unless the need was great.  Even so, the hospital felt colder the moment he left it, and John’s mood sank quickly at knowing he was stuck there by himself for the afternoon.

That is, until he looked up from a book Barsad had brought him—Dickens, ‘A Tale of Two Cities,’ one he’d always meant to read, and now seemed a good time to catch up on that stuff—and discovered a visitor at his door.

Bruce fucking Wayne, of all people.

The man hardly looked affected by the bullet John knew he’d taken.  He had on his typical sharp-looking businessman suit, tie, slicked-back hair and not even the sleek black sling holding his arm in place could take the air of importance and power away from the man.  John found himself envying it a little, and then just admiring it.  The guy could hold a presence in a room without a word, and not just anyone could hold John’s attention like that after all he’d seen of the world and its people.  It felt kind of familiar, actually. 

Knocking a little lamely on the open door after already having been seen, Wayne smiled a sheepish smile that could probably disarm almost anyone.  “You up for a visitor today, John?”  So it was first-names, today.  Okay.

He shrugged, clicking his remote to wind the bed up to a slightly better sitting position for talking and settling the book in his lap.  “Sure, Bruce,” he returned the familiarity in kind, watching the spark of amusement in the other’s eyes, “why not.”

Shutting the door most of the way, only just not latched, Wayne dragged over the higher-backed visitor chair and sat down at the side of the foot of the bed, carefully settling his arm and sling to rest across his stomach.  “I wanted to thank you, first of all.”  At John’s ticked-up eyebrow, he continued, “I think I’d have had a lot more trouble than a sling and an out-patient trip to Gotham General if you hadn’t pushed me out of the way in the hall, there.”

_What?_   He tried to think back, but he hadn’t remembered doing any such thing.  “…I did?”  It was his turn for a sheepish look.  “Well, if I did, you’re welcome.”

Wayne nodded.  “You did, indeed.  Quite heroic of you, actually.”

“Nah, probably just tripped,” he deflected, and they both chuckled a little.  He asked about John’s job, what he did in the company, seeming genuinely interested.  His face was still guarded, still the mask he wore for the world, but knowing what to look for gave John little glimpses of the man inside here and there.  It was more clear when he asked John about his personal life, when John mentioned he was adopted. 

“Oh?”  He looked up, then, eyes much more attentive than they had been.  Of course they would be. 

John nodded.  “Yeah, my parents died when I was a kid.”  That got the reaction he knew it would as Wayne got quiet, serious. 

“How?”

“Well, we were—my mom was in a car crash, I was little, don’t remember that one too much,” he began.  “But, uh, my dad got shot, a couple of years later, that one I can remember just fine.” 

Wayne just looked at him for a few moments, not with pity, not even really sympathy, but a steady recognition, as if seeing John for the first time again.  He nodded, then, just a brief motion, before turning the conversation back to work, how the company was faring with Wayne’s new changes, nothing related to family or the shooting.  It was different, after, though; the mood in the room had been irreparably changed. 

“So you’re gonna be around more, are you?” John asked when the conversation had lulled.

Wayne considered him a moment, then nodded.  “Looks like it,” he replied simply.

“Maybe it’ll be good for you,” he added, feeling a bit mischievous.

“Maybe it will,” Wayne chuckled softly.

“You know, if you don’t get shot again…”

They both managed a small laugh at that, despite casts and slings.


	21. Chapter 21

On release day, a full week after the shooting, he was practically itching to get out of the hospital bed.  Of course, with a cast covering his leg, he was _literally_ itching, as well, but he was doing his best to ignore that, knowing it would only get worse, later, and focusing on it now would do him no good.  There was a long list of instructions sent with him, three pages about changing dressings, disinfectants, medications, cast maintenance, but all he really cared about was getting out the fucking door.

Despite insisting he’d be fine on crutches, he was forced to sit in a wheelchair pushed by Barsad on the way to the exit; hospital policy, apparently.  Barsad was clearly amused by John’s annoyance, which in turn only made it stronger, of course.

Getting into a cab was an adventure in itself, requiring a good bit of jostling and maneuvering that his leg and shoulder were not pleased about.  His appetite wasn’t really back, yet, but he’d kept down enough food to pacify the doctors into letting him leave, and his stomach didn’t turn at Barsad’s discussion of food, so that was progress.  Dinner still didn’t sound like the best idea, but maybe he’d give it a shot.  Barsad’s cooking had to be better than the food from the hospital’s kitchen.  He hoped.

The relative ease of getting out of the cab didn’t prepare him well enough for the trek into his apartment building, where his place sat on the fourth floor.  Up four flights of stairs, backwards, for balance.  Barsad helped him, pushing and half-carrying his weight when he faltered, but eventually they made it to the blessedly flat surface that was his hallway.  He never thought he’d have been so happy to see its sickly shade of green carpet, that was for sure. 

They were barely through the door, Barsad entering first, before John found himself caught up, feet no longer touching the floor, two strong arms around him so tightly he thought he might pass out.

“He does have a shoulder wound, and one to the belly,” Barsad calmly reminded Bane as he latched and locked the door behind them.

The tightness eased, but he stayed suspended, getting walked backward until his back was against the wall, held up then merely by being pinned rather than from Bane’s hands, which had just left their grasp anyway.  Crutches abandoned, he held onto Bane’s broad shoulder tightly, as securely as he could with only one good arm at the moment.  He winced at trying to use the other, looking up suddenly when he heard a distinctive click from the mask just in front of his face.

“What are you…” but he didn’t have time to get anything else out before his mouth was covered, attacked, swept up in a near-violent kiss that startled him so much he wasn’t even sure he was feeling it, at first.  But then a thick tongue slid past his lips, over his own, and John practically melted against the wall at how overwhelming the contact was.

Bane.  Bane was kissing him.  He almost couldn’t believe it.

After his initial shock, John quickly slid his arm tightly around Bane’s neck, not willing to miss one second of such a gift for being distracted.  He knew he might never get another chance at this again, and maybe he wanted to show his other dad how good he’d gotten at it, not just Barsad.  So he curled his fingers around Bane’s neck, having long ago learned the thick scar running down it wasn’t so sensitive as to need special care or avoidance. 

Holding securely, he leaned his head forward, returning the pressure at his lips, feeling the places in which Bane’s were scarred over, nicked by knives long ago, torn by fingernails.  Bane’s face was as much a testament to everything he’d gone through as any other damaged part of him.  John had seen it before, his curiosity indulged during medication changes for the sake of education, as a harsh lesson in the brutality of men, and so Barsad could teach him how to replenish the analgesic, but feeling it was quite different. 

It was over almost before it had begun, and he was sure the pain would begin to return for Bane quickly, but he felt its pressure, the sting where crooked teeth had bitten into his lip in haste, even after they parted.  Instead of pulling back to put the mask back in place, however, Bane rested his forehead against John’s for a moment.

“I worried,” he spoke simply, his voice quiet, just above the volume of a whisper, but sounding strange, almost flat without the added echo of filtering through the mask.

John nodded, brazenly pressing a fresh kiss to the scarred lips.  It was returned in much less of a rush than before, and he smiled at it.  The mask was at last replaced, John helping since Bane’s hands were once again holding him up to steady him and keep his cast off the floor, and he didn’t feel like being dropped with the heavy covering.  Once settled and in place, John ran his fingertips over the front grate.

“Thank you,” he spoke almost reverently.  Bane didn’t have to wear the thing every waking moment, truly, but the medication’s vapor was still slow-release, and removing it always set him on edge that something would go wrong and he would not get it back.  It was not that he feared the pain, John knew, but the level of agony he would experience when truly without the mask’s help would cloud his mind, make his body sluggish, and in so doing, debilitate him.  No one wanted to be rendered powerless, useless. 

When he glanced in his direction, Barsad was smiling rather softly.  “Let’s get you settled, Éinín,” he spoke quietly, smoothing his hair that had gotten out of place from being pressed to the wall.

They’d set up an extra bed in his room, made up and with a small stack of books beside it.  John smiled at seeing it, as Barsad set out the bottle of painkillers he’d been sent home with on the nightstand between the two beds.  “You guys put some thought into this, huh,” he said half teasingly even through his smile.  They’d set it up for him, for when he’d come home, and the thought warmed his heart; he needed that warmth after what he’d gone through.

“You’ll need as much rest as possible, little bird,” Barsad explained as Bane helped him over to lie down.  He would have protested, bringing up the fact that he’d been in bed for the last few days already, but the truth was that even just the effort of checking out of the hospital and getting back home had made him tired again.  They wouldn’t be sleeping right next to him, so he wouldn’t feel their warmth in the bed, but he knew it was better for his leg and his shoulder to have safe space to lie. 

____________________

He awoke to the light press of a warm body above him, the brush of cotton against his skin without the sheet that had covered him when he'd fallen asleep.  Barsad, he knew once the bristle met his cheek.  His mouth was tenderly covered, a means to wake him, and he opened his eyes.

"I missed that," he spoke quietly, the night still dark and full.

Barsad nodded, stroking the pad of his thumb over John's cheek and pressing a more firm kiss to his lips.  "I wanted to hold you so badly, Éinín..."

Nodding in fervent agreement, John reached to curl his fingers around Barsad's arm, just holding on like he hadn't been able to do for days.  "I wanted that, too," he agreed, "but they wouldn't have understood."  The body above him shifted to the side slightly, adjusting for his leg, he guessed, but the movement pressed the jut of Barsad's hip against John's groin, and he could not fully bite back the groan it pulled from him. 

"Indeed not," breathed out above him before his mouth was once again covered, taken up by Barsad's, his tongue dipping past John's lips and sliding along his own.  He didn't mind the rough brush of his beard against his jaw—shaggier for the worry of his stay in the hospital—having missed even that.  In contrast, John had a shade of stubble he hadn't bothered to shave while laid up, one he knew Talia would insist he erase the moment she saw it, but for now it combated the other's.  Barsad's hands were on him, then, running carefully up his stomach, his sides, over his chest, his legs holding him steady as they planted on either side of John's waist. 

To his chagrin, a yawn stretched his jaw, separating him from Barsad who pulled back to watch him closely.  "I'm sorry, little one," he murmured against John's chin. "Do you need to go back to sleep?"

John shook his head quickly, scrubbing over his eyes with the hand not trapped in a sling.  "I'm just tired, it's fine.  I don't wanna miss this; been too long."  Even before the shooting, it had been several days since he'd felt Barsad's body like this. He got kisses more regularly, Barsad knowing he seemed to crave that contact, but it wasn't like he sucked either of them off every night or anything.  It was still a special, out of the ordinary thing to feel their hands on him so close.    He’d been overwhelmed by nearly too much touch, but too little or none at all he couldn’t handle.   

"Aye," Barsad agreed as he pulled back, stroking over John's cheek, "but I want you rested, healing.  Losing too much sleep will disrupt that."

"Yet you woke me," he teased, turning his head and pressing a kiss to Barsad's palm then up to his fingers, deviously licking at and sucking one into his mouth.  He shifted his eyes to catch Barsad's as he did, a promise of what he could still do for him even if he had to stay 'resting.' 

He allowed it, his eyes watching John in return, teasing his finger in and out past his lips, having caught John's suggestion.  It withdrew after a moment or two, painting over his lips with his own saliva, blowing out gently to light them up with a small chill.  "Perhaps it would be safer to merely allow you kisses, for now, Éinín..."

The whine almost left his throat, but he managed to bite it back, knowing that kisses were missed just as much, if not more than any other touch, anyway.  If he had to just have those, he'd make the most of them.  Then again... "I would stay still for it," he promised, licking at Barsad's fingers again.  "I wouldn't have to kneel, I could lie here and you could be the one to move..." 

If he were being honest with himself, he had to admit the thought of Barsad kneeling above him and using his mouth like that sent a thrill through his body.  There had been times he'd seen Bane make rougher use of Barsad, times he wasn't even sure they knew he'd seen, though he wasn't as adept at hiding his presence as they were, most of the time.  When he'd seen it, it had looked good, Barsad had seemed at peace even though, logically, knowing the size of Bane and how his hips had been flush to Barsad's face, the man couldn't possibly have been able to breathe for most of it.  Bane had been rougher with Barsad's mouth than John would expect Barsad to be with his, but even so, the memory of what he'd seen, plus the times he'd curiously searched porn sites for ' _throat fucking_ ' almost before he'd really realized what he was looking for, had him getting even harder in his boxers, their soft cotton not doing much to keep his dick still. 

Keeping his eyes on the lidded blue of Barsad's, barely definable in the darkness, he bit playfully at the other man's thumb, giving him a cheeky smirk he hoped could be seen.  It had to have been, because in the next instant, the body above him shifted back, grinding Barsad's groin against his, and he startled, able to feel the pressure, the outline and shape of his erection against his own, lighting up his nerves in a way he'd only felt once before.  An audible gasp escaped him, the suddenness of the sensation making him unable to stop it.

"Fuck," rushed past his lips before he bit down on one.  His hair was tugged at sharply in reprimand, and he felt teeth scrape against his neck, as well.  "God, just gonna make me wanna curse again," he groaned out quietly, grasping a handful of Barsad's t-shirt.  At that, the teeth bit down, and he couldn't help another bit out curse, his hips rocking up at Barsad's, increasing the pressure between them, letting him feel more of how they slid against each other.  Of course, it also sent a shudder of pain through his leg from too much movement, and he hissed, tensing beneath Barsad.

"Be still, John," Barsad warned, pressing a hand flat against his hip to hold him down.  "You'll undo the healing you've begun."  It was a command, but the concern was clear in his voice.

Panting, body still twitching without his permission, he shook his head quickly.  "I can't, not like this."

The rustle of bedsheets was barely audible from beside them, but John knew they'd woken Bane.  "And where is your training now, little one, in controlling your body?"

John stilled instantly at hearing his voice, earning a pinch to his side from Barsad.  "Of course you listen to _him_ right away," he teased.

"Yeah," John deadpanned, "most people who want to live do."

Barsad huffed.  "Perhaps I should be harder on you, then?"  Bane chuckled knowingly, and Barsad shot him a glare.  "It is not as if I am incapable." 

"Of course not."

"Now," he returned his focus to John, "where was I?"

Smirking, he answered, "You were about to let me suck you off."

"Oh, _was_ I?"

He nodded more seriously.

"I see..."  John gasped as Barsad's hand rubbed down his side, sliding around to palm over his groin, covered only by his boxers since he'd moved the sheet off of him.  "And what if I wanted, instead, to take care of my boy?"

He started to respond, to argue he'd much rather suck him than be jerked just then, no matter how good it felt when he touched him, but the devious look in Barsad's eyes was clear even in the near black of the dark.  They gleamed.  "You—”  Swallowing to wet his suddenly dry throat, he finished, "You... want to, uh, suck... me?"  It was more incredulous sounding than he'd intended, but it only made it more accurate for it. 

Bane laughed from the bed, its springs creaking in protest as he shifted to sit on its edge.  "I was wondering how long it would take him."

"What, for me to figure out what he meant?" John tossed over.

"No," Bane corrected, "for Barsad to give in to his desire to use his mouth on you.  He is very adept," he assured.

John went red.  Second to his embarrassment, his mind shifted back to thoughts and images of the two of them together, and the squirm it brought got him a smack on his hip. 

"Still, Éinín, or I cannot."

"Perhaps he will need to be held down," Bane added, and John's breathing quickened at the prospect of having both of their hands on him while Barsad had him in his mouth.  It sounded perfect, and he babbled out something to that effect in a rush of excitement.  "So eager."  It was more fond than admonishing. 

He found himself nodding before he had a chance to hold it back, too eager for their touch to control it.  "Please?"

Bane chuckled again, lifting John's shoulders and sitting behind him on the bed, laying John's head in his lap.  Stroking a hand through his hair, he spoke quietly, "We will start with this, for now, little one." 

Barsad was already backing off of John's legs, instead straddling the bare one, leaning over him.  "And what prize do you have for me, my boy?"  John shivered as his shorts were eased down over his hips, worked around the cast and then slipped off his feet to be discarded on the floor.  In silent answer to the question, his dick lay full and eager against his stomach.  "A prize indeed," Barsad fairly cooed.

"Y-Yeah," he swallowed, shifting his bottom to get more comfortable.  "Just settling," he defended when a wide hand pressed down on his hip.  "I'm done moving, promise."

"Not completely, I hope," hissed the voice above him, and it was then, the same moment Barsad's hand circled his dick, that John realized his head had been nestled right next to the firm tent in Bane's pants. 

Glancing up into his eyes, or trying to, not able to pick them out past the mask in the dark, he nodded, making sure the motion had his face brushing firmly against the warmth of him.  "Not completely," he promised. 

Pushing his hand away when he tried to help, Bane eased himself out of the flap opening of the drawstring pants, settling the weight of his cock next to John's lips.  "Go on, then," he instructed. 


	22. Chapter 22

With no more words needed, John tilted his head along Bane's thigh, licking his lips and sliding them along his shaft in wet kisses.  A nuzzle shifted his foreskin back, the angle making it a little harder to keep the folds off the head, but he managed, licking at the sensitive tip.  The quiet groan from above him thrummed through his shoulders and neck, urging him on.  Of course, so did the sudden warmth of Barsad's mouth on his dick, a teasing swipe of a quick tongue from the base of him to the tip.  It felt incredible as he started to work him into his mouth, but it made it harder to work on Bane, to concentrate. 

"That's good, little one," Bane breathed out in approval from above him.  The encouragement shivered through him, and he craned his neck to slip the head of him past his lips, sucking eagerly and closing his eyes at the taste of him.  They flew open a moment later when his hair received a sharp yank.  Looking up, his brow furrowed in question.

"You will strain your shoulder, John," Bane admonished, petting through the strands he'd offended, rubbing at his scalp.  "You must be as still as possible for us."

He nodded obediently, leaning his head back to a more relaxed position.  "I just can't reach, is all," he explained when it brought his mouth further back from Bane. 

"Then let me move, instead," Bane insisted, shifting carefully beneath him so that his head was still cradled and his shoulder didn't get jostled in the process.  In a moment, he was in a lot better position to reach.

"That okay on your back?" he asked hesitantly when he realized the odd angle he'd moved to.  He didn't want him to be in pain just to spare his own. 

With a lurid slurp that John had thought only existed in porn videos, Barsad pulled his mouth away from John's dick, making him shiver slightly from the sudden rush of cold air, but speaking before he could complain.  "Hush, Éinín.  We are taking care of _you_ , right now."  Without another word, and effectively cutting off any forthcoming from John, he ducked back down to suck way too firmly if John was going to be able to hold out for long, burying his entire length in his mouth and pulling a startled groan seated in John's stomach.

" _Fuck_ ," he swore at the sight of it, Bane's hand firmly pressing down on his hip to keep him from squirming.  "I can't... can't stay still with _that_!" he panted out.

Ever the voice of reason, Bane warned, "You will need to, or it will end." 

Nodding quickly, he took a settling breath that hitched in his throat, letting it out carefully before turning back to Bane, distracting himself by slipping the heavy head of him past his lips.  His entire body felt on fire, heat pooling in his belly from Barsad's attention, his chest rubbed at and stroked by each of their hands, his mouth stretching around Bane's girth.  The rhythm of his breathing fought between steadying his body for Barsad and catching each breath through his nose that he could before Bane's cock cut off the supply.  The images of Barsad's mouth and throat filled to the brim reentered his mind, the videos he'd seen flashing through his sight as he took the weight of him deeper, over his tongue, bumping against the back of his throat.

Heavy breathing hissed through the mask as Bane stroked through his hair, silently approving and staying admirably still on his own, whereas John required a pair of hands on his waist to keep to one spot.  Holding his own breath, he tried to take him deeper, but only succeeded in coughing and finally activating his gag reflex, having to yank back quickly and gasp in a few calming breaths.

Chuckling, Bane patted his head affectionately.  "Do not overdo it, little one," he advised, "though your enthusiasm is appreciated, as always."

As if _just_ to show him up, or perhaps to give him a goal to look toward, Barsad dove down on John's dick so deeply that his lips pressed flush to the skin around his balls, his tongue licking wetly over them.  It was too much, and the second he had Bane's cock back in his mouth, he shot out from his own, his back arching up despite their efforts to keep him still as he cried out.  If he flinched, John didn't see, but he didn't pull back until John was finished and sliding from his mouth, spent.  It wouldn't last for long, if they kept touching him, not after so many days without, but they weren't likely to keep him up for much longer no matter how much they'd missed each other.

Bane took his time, by contrast.  Slipping his hand through John's hair to hold it cradled against his scalp, he guided John's head as he sucked him, making him feel like he was getting used even though he was the one moving.  With the pace managed for him, he focused on the littler things, the way his lips fit around him, how he could flatten and press his tongue against the veins running down the length of him, teasing at the folds around the head when he eased back.  His breathing worries were forgotten, his body taking over as he focused on other things, as Barsad rubbed over his stomach and chest firmly, though carefully avoiding his injuries there and his shoulder. 

Soft encouragements were murmured into his ear as Barsad moved up over him.  Heated, no doubt swollen lips were pressed to the shell of it, curled around it, warm breath ghosting over his skin and shifting his hair.  He could hear the wet sound as Barsad kissed at Bane's hand in John's hair, and he would have smiled at it if his mouth hadn't been too much stretched to bend.  Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of them, of their breathing, of the soft shushing of his hair ground against Bane's thigh, of the scrape of Barsad's stubble against his own cheek, against Bane's hand and arm, more wet noises as, though he couldn't be sure, it seemed Barsad slipped Bane's thumb into his mouth to suck, as well.  The groan from above him lent some evidence to convince him.

It wasn't all at once, not sudden like John's.  He could hear his breathing shift, start to lose its careful rhythm, and his grip began to twitch against John's scalp.  Barsad chuckled lowly beside his head, and he was startled to feel a hot tongue slide against his lips, against Bane's shaft with him.  Eyes popping open, he couldn't see much, but suddenly Barsad was licking and sucking at whatever portion of Bane's cock was left currently unattended by John's mouth, giving part of that attention to John's lips when he was close to them. 

A louder groan left Bane's throat and suddenly he wasn't completely passive, anymore, wasn't just moving John's head.  He felt his head grind against Bane's thigh as his muscled hips rocked forward at the two of them, the strong hand gone from his stomach, no doubt in Barsad's hair now, as well.  Moments later, he pulled back with a low gasp, both John's and Barsad's faces kept close together with his grip on their hair, and John blinked as hot fluid shot at his cheeks, across one eyelid. 

With a breathless chuckle as the pad of Bane's thumb carefully wiped his eye clear, John smiled contentedly.  "Now _that's_ a welcome home," he joked.  The two of them only chuckled back at him, Barsad kissing him rather thoroughly before, as he'd expected, insisting he get back to rest for the remainder of the night.  It wasn't that hard when he felt so peaceful. 

____________________

He’d remembered less at first, mostly just everything going dark after the shots, but with time, after working through his memory to squeeze all of the details out, walking through the day’s events minute by minute, he’d remembered the pain.  It came in flashes, a second or two here, a few more there.  Nothing he couldn’t handle, nothing he bothered to tell them. 

But they told _him_ … Bane told him who had paid for the hit on Wayne.  Daggett.  Of course, Daggett.  He would have figured it out if his head hadn’t been full of drugs for the better part of a week.  It made sense.

He was dead, and John knew Bane had taken care of him.  Bane hadn’t told him directly, but John had gotten a hold of a few newspapers, and he’d seen the obit, the talk of his CEO taking over his fledgling little company’s assets, and John finally had a name for the smug face from Wayne Enterprises; Stryver.  Phillip Stryver.  They had been keeping an eye on him, now, especially after how involved they knew he’d been, though John couldn’t be sure if he’d been involved in this. 

It took so long for him to heal.  They worked his legs, made sure he did as many exercises as he could with the cast and his still-stiff shoulder, but boredom and cabin fever still threatened to be the death of him, mentally if not physically.  He’d read all of the books they’d gotten for him, along with a few of Bane’s tomes—those were much thicker, much more intellectual, though he enjoyed the brain-stretch.  He ended up reading everything in the apartment more than once, caught every newscast he could until he couldn’t stand listening to them any longer. 

Despite all efforts, he became incredibly bored with cabin-fever long before the cast was due to be removed.  Even once it was, once he had the weight of the plaster gone, replaced with the unfortunate sight of his pale, much more scraggly-looking skin, he was still limited and was not yet allowed to return to work, according to the doctors.  Bane didn’t trust their opinions, having little respect for doctors in general—not that John could blame him at all for that one, given his history—but he’d started out going along with their schedule, so he was going to finish it, if only to appear normal.  At least regarding work.

No one was going to stop him from leaving the apartment once he had some range of motion back in his knee.  It wasn’t perfect, not back to normal, that would take some physical therapy appointments and more work on his own, but he could _move_.  It required the use of a cane, for a time, but he supposed it only made him look dignified rather than pathetic.  Maybe.  He’d choose to think of it that way, regardless, as he made his way along the city streets.  His shoulder had healed faster, the sling abandoned unless it got sore, so he could at least balance properly as he shuffled along.

He took his walks daily, while Bane and Barsad were asleep, not to hide them from either of them—that wasn’t possible, he knew from experience—but to escape the quiet of the apartment.  It wasn’t as still and somber as when he’d been living in it alone, since Barsad’s soft and steady snores often made sure of that, but the lack of movement taxed his mind.

The walks gave him a shift to his routine.  Without being at work, he was home when the mail arrived, often greeting the carrier when she entered the apartment building.  He didn’t tend to get exciting mail, and had no interest in flirting with the woman, but he made small talk, keeping his people-skills at least a little sharper than they would be without talking to anyone at all.  When an elaborately designed envelope had first arrived, John had assumed it had come from Talia somehow, part of her cover life as Miranda Tate.  The woman had handed it to him with a grin, however, seeming to be impressed by it enough to want to see his reaction in person, and looking closer, he'd spotted the logo: Wayne Enterprises.  That had him curious.

Opening it revealed an equally, if not surpassingly, elaborate invitation.  Apparently, it was Wayne's birthday, and he planned on sharing his huge party with grunt workers he’d convinced himself had helped save his life.  Though, of course, it was possible that it was just the work of his publicist trying to keep up his image.  The thought of actually going to the party was less than appealing to John, and when he told Barsad about the invitation his reluctance was encouraged.

More than that, he got a warning; it would be better if he stayed away, but if he went, he was to be on his guard, leaving immediately if the gathering went south.  They didn't tell him any more than that, but the warning was strong enough that John knew something was going down that night.  What it was, he didn't know, and was incredibly curious.  They were both going to be there, not inside but around the grounds, and he overheard talk of other league members being assigned similar tasks.  Whatever it was, it was something big.

Things had been tense lately.  He knew there was some major shit going down, shit that affected them, that they were at least partly involved in, that involved other members of the League, but they weren't telling him everything.  Hell, they were hardly telling him anything, at all, other than to stay out of the Narrows, and that was something he already did, for the most part.  Par for the course, he supposed.  Still, it made him frustrated, and angry, sometimes.  The feeling of danger always hung over his head when it came to them, but it was heavier now, thicker, making it harder for him to breathe easy even when they came home each night, when he had their arms wrapped around him tightly, securely.  That security was starting to feel false, thin. 


	23. Chapter 23

There were times in John's life when the only memory he had of an event was from another person's description, from when they told him what had happened, what he'd done.  In those cases, his mind was left to reconstruct it from the outside instead of just remembering from his own point of view.  Afterward, the memory was as strong as any other, filed neatly into his mind as if he’d put it there himself, and he had a good number of them intermingled with the regular ones. 

It had happened again.

When he opened his eyes—or had they already been open?—he saw only a blur of light at first.  As it slowly came to focus, he felt the water, warm, surrounding him, washing over him.  Only when the light finally cleared did he see that water below him was tinged red.

Trying to speak earned him only a dry, painful croak at first, but then there was a cup of cool water at his lips, and he sipped it gratefully.

"Dad...?" he forced out past the cracks.

"No," a patient voice answered.  A female voice, and one not reconcilable with Talia’s. 

Looking up, he was surprised to focus his vision and find Tami kneeling beside the tub he was sitting in.  The tub he was awkwardly naked in.  He felt his cheeks and ears flush red in embarrassment, and sluggishly positioned his hands over himself.  "I... Uhm..." 

An indulgent smile lit her features, though her eyes were cautious, tinged not with fear, exactly, but something close to it.  "I have already seen all of you, John; there's really no need to hide, now."  Well that made him feel better, sure. 

"What, uh..."  He licked his lips, tasting a faint hint of copper which had his mind racing further.  "What happened?..."

"You were in shock," her gentle voice smoothly, if vaguely, intoned.  With a little shrug, just the barest rise and fall of her slender shoulders, as if it were the most logical and natural of things, she finished, "Someone had to clean you up."

Honestly, he wasn’t sure how she had managed to guide him to her apartment, or maneuver him into the tub.  He certainly didn’t remember climbing in.  When he asked her about it, looking over her much slighter frame, she rolled her eyes in annoyance.

“Well I’m not a lightweight,” he defended.

Tilting her head, she regarded him with a look he sometimes saw on Talia’s face.  It was usually there when he’d really stepped in it and was about to get a lesson; now, it made him shut his mouth against any more arguments.  “And I’m automatically weak because I’m smaller than you are?” 

_Fuck_.  He winced at the response, realizing exactly where he’d gone wrong, but before he could fix it, she continued, voice tight, hands rubbing at her arms as if chilled.  “No one’s going to look out for me but me; I gotta be strong enough to take care of myself, strong enough to make a ‘No’ stick.”  There was a distant look in her eyes at the last, and he hated seeing it there. 

“Tami…”

She shook her head, the soft waves of her hair brushing smoothly against her shoulders.  “Don’t do that.  Don’t feel sorry for me.  I don’t.”  Chin raised, her eyes were back to being the hard gems they usually were as she looked back at him. 

“Alright,” he agreed, ready to change the subject back again.  “Then are you going to tell me what _actually_ happened?  Whose blood had to get washed off?  Because it’s not mine,” he did a quick stock of himself and couldn’t see or feel any places he was cut, “and it can’t be yours…”

“John…”  There was that look of concern again, but this time it gave him a chill despite the warmth of the water.  “…What’s the last thing you remember?”

____________________

They didn't tell him about it at first, not wanting to worry him, but it didn't work. He noticed how Barsad didn't come home one night; how could he not?  He noticed the tension in Bane's body, how little he spoke, and it was Talia who first mentioned it, having assumed he already knew.  It wasn't as if he ever thought their work had no risks, that they were invincible, they’d been hurt before, but there was always the thought that it wouldn't be them, that if anyone were to be seriously hurt or killed in the dark of the night, in the depths of the rotted Narrows, the corroded shade of the city, it would be someone on the opposite side of the dealing lines. 

Over the years before they’d first left the country, for a few days here or there, he'd been with just the one of them, but it had always been handled very carefully, openly, for his sake, especially when he had been younger.  Bane had been out the whole of the night, no mid-night waking to the pair returning to their bed, no softly hushed tones, no 'go back to sleep, little one' had come.  John had awoken that morning, looking over once he realized it was already light, finding Bane's carefully turned back, the rise and fall of his side as he slept.  He hadn't realized until he'd come back from showering that there was only one body laid out on the mattress.  Toothbrush still in his mouth, he'd gone to check the couch, to no avail.  When nothing was spoken of it, when he had no text, no note and no call, he'd assumed he had been on an unexpected job. 

The worrying hadn't started until that night, when there was no sign yet and Bane had been avoiding making conversation.  John didn't like to press him when he was tense, it didn't usually work out too well for either of them, but he'd been incredibly close to saying something by the time Talia had taken him out for lunch the next day.  She’d assumed they’d told him right away, that he already knew, and asked if he’d been to see Barsad, yet.

“See him _where_?” he asked in return, his voice sharp, his entire body stiff, tense, tightened up at the prospect of finally hearing any word on his dad, hoping it was something simple and fearing it was anything but.  “Where is he?”  The worry crept into his voice, and he couldn’t possibly help it.

Talia, who had been lifting her fork to her mouth, paused, her eyes flicking slowly up at John, taking him in before she took her bite and swallowed.  Folding her hands under her chin, she steadied her gaze into his eyes, and he felt himself squirming.  “They did not tell you,” she said simply.  It wasn’t a question.

“No,” he spoke more sharply than he intended, “and it’s starting to piss me off that no one is telling me shit.”  Wincing as he saw a head or two turn in their direction when his voice rose, he ducked his head, swiping a hand through his hair.  “Sorry.”

“Take a breath, little brother,” she ordered calmly, never one to show her own ire when John’s rose, knowing it only made it worse, and in public, a scene.  She had more control over it than he had hope of ever having.  When he’d shown he could catch his breath, that he’d put a lid on his frustration, she went on, eyes not leaving him, continuing to measure him.  “Barsad was injured during a job, by someone who intended to take his life.”

It felt as if John’s heart stopped, as if the world around him slowed, the air thick, hard to breathe.  With effort, he swallowed thickly, pushing down the old nightmares.  “Is… Is he…?”

“He is alive, John,” she spoke simply, mercifully, though his relief didn’t last long.  “But it was close, and remains so.  For now, we act as if they succeeded, in order to draw out any others involved, thank you,” she added the last to the server as he took away their used and finished plates, the smoothness with which she slid from one statement to the next, a private tone to a professional one, normally an amazement to John, now barely registered. 

“Are they dead?” he asked coldly when the server had left them, out of earshot.  “Did he kill them?  Did Bane?”

Talia nodded.  “The gunman was killed, yes, once he had given up who had hired him.”

“And are _they_ dead?” he pressed, feeling his anger rise again, heat pushed upward by the cold fear below it.

“John,” she cut in, taking hold of his hand over the table, the firm touch enough to startle him into silence.  “It has been taken care of.”

“Not by me,” he spat, yanking his hand back.  She would be angry with him, he knew, but he couldn’t let it go, couldn’t sit there and talk about it anymore.  He didn’t stay for coffee or tea like they usually did.  He didn’t walk her to her cab and kiss her cheek.  He didn’t even say goodbye.  Instead, he stood, set his napkin on the table, and left.  She tried to catch him with an outstretched hand, her eyes hardened, but she didn’t call out after him, made no scene; still, he could feel her gaze as if it bored holes into his back.

He called Bane, knowing the man only got frustrated if he tried to respond to text messages with small cell phone keys.  The conversation was short, in clipped tones, John trying desperately not to yell at him since the man had enough worries on his own plate if Barsad was hurt.  He hung up as soon as he found out where they were keeping him.

Underground, of course.  Glaring down the sentry that tried at first to stop him before his face was recognized, he slipped down below street level, the sanitized smell of hospital equipment already assaulting his nose, though faint.  He was too familiar with it, now.  Once he was through, most of the people on guard left him alone.  Most he hadn’t actually met before, but for safety’s sake he knew Bane and Barsad would have made sure his face was known on a safe list.  A no-kill list.  Even though they were letting him through, his agitation rose with every guard he had to clear, with every second he wasn’t yet with Barsad.  It continued to build until he finally was led into a room with lower lighting, the quiet beeping of a heart-rate monitor the only sound inside.

“Barsad?” he called quietly, closing the door behind him to be alone with him.  Compared to the slow, steady beeping that met his ears, his own pulse was quickened, his nerves overriding the anger and gathering sweat on his skin.  Only when he approached the hospital bed, leaning on its raised side wall to ground himself, did he realize he’d left his cane back at the restaurant.  He didn’t really even feel the pain in his leg, at least, not enough to care.  Concern rose higher when Barsad didn’t respond right away, his eyes closed in what he hoped was just a restful sleep, but feared was something more.

“I don’t know if you’re awake, or if you can hear me, but it’s John…  I…”  He stopped, wiping at his eyes and taking a careful breath.  There had been injuries, but not like this.  “I would have been here sooner,” he started again when he could keep the waver from his throat, “but no one told me where you were or even what happened.”  Gripping the side of the bed rail tightly, he watched his knuckles go white.  “Maybe Bane was trying to protect me,” he added with a measure of bitterness.

The suddenness of the hand covering his own had him nearly jumping back, startled.  When he looked back to his face, his eyes were just barely open, small slips letting only a hint of their bright blue through.  “Not Bane,” his voice rasped with effort.

“What?”

Swallowing, he repeated, “Not Bane.”  When John only furrowed his brow, he worked to add, “I told him not to tell you.”

“Why would—” pausing, he took in a steady set of breaths until he could control the bite in his tone.  Respect, patience.  The first he had, if not always so clearly demonstrated; the second was taking a lifetime to master.  “Why would you do that?  You had me so scared.”

The grip on his hand was weak, but it tightened ever so slightly as he took a thin breath.  “Didn’t… want you to see this.”

Barsad was sure to feel the shake in his limbs as he tried to keep control, but he couldn’t calm them.  “Not knowing was a hell of a lot fucking worse,” he grated out, not caring what words he used at the moment.  “Are… Are you going to be okay?  You’re getting better, right?  You’ll come home?”

A tired nod answered him.  “I am.  You should see the other guy,” he added with a dim twinkle to his eyes.

“Who was it?” he demanded quietly.

“John…”

“No,” he cut him off, not a difficult thing in his condition.  “Who was it?  Someone connected to Daggett?  Stryver?”  He could already imagine that slick-haired prick dead. 

Barsad’s voice was quiet, but still firm. “You don’t need to worry.”

“Bullshit.”  A thumbnail dug its way into the meat of his hand, and he flinched.  “I’m not fucking worried about my fucking language right now, okay?”

“John, enough.”  Turning, he spotted the brighter corridor mostly blocked still as Bane’s frame occupied the doorway.  “He needs rest, not demands and stress.”

“Who was it?” he demanded, the harshness in his own voice surprising him.  “I want to know who it was.”

After a moment of tense silence, Bane’s eyes flicked to Barsad, and they must have had a silent agreement as he looked back to John to answer.  “The hit’s order came from Falcone,” he answered finally.

The room suddenly felt colder, though John’s body was finally still, heat spreading through his limbs.  “From Carmine Falcone?” he asked evenly.  “From the same guy who’s had you work for him all this time?”

“There have been complications and tensions in the last few weeks,” Bane supplied, but didn’t elaborate.

“So he’s dead, then?  I haven’t read about it.”  In fact, last he’d heard, Falcone had been rounded up by Wayne’s Bat and handed over to the police. 

“He has been handled,” Bane repeated, “well enough that he will wish for death long before it comes to him.   The sniper has been killed.”

Wait, sniper?  “…Was it the same guy?” he had to ask, suddenly feeling the ache in his leg again.

“An old enemy made a deal beneficial to both him and Falcone.”  Bane’s voice was tight as he stepped over beside Barsad, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed.  “It is over.”

They weren’t telling him everything.  It was getting to be a habit.  “Was anyone else involved?”

Barsad’s hand retreated as he rested his arm over his chest, and Bane’s thick fingers squeezed at John’s wrist.  “It is over, little one.  There are always more strings to chase, but for now the important ones have been cut.  That is what matters.”

He yanked his hand back reflexively.  “It doesn’t feel over to me.”  Shaking his head, he leaned down to kiss Barsad’s cheek, whispering softly, “I’ll be careful, I promise, but I have to go.”

“John…”

Straightening, he looked Bane steadily in the eyes, as if challenging him to order him to stop, to stay.  In response, Bane held John’s gaze.  “John, you need to stay with us.  We would have been gathering you tonight, had things gone correctly, and leaving Gotham.”

Eyes narrows, John paused, head tilted.  “Leaving?  The ‘big plan’ had us leaving tonight, and you didn’t say anything?  I know shit goes down, I fucking _know_ you’ve got stuff happening, so why can’t you just _tell me_?”  He hadn’t intended to let out the storm inside him at them, but he could feel it rising.

Barsad’s hand slowly reached up and grasped John’s wrist, forcing his attention to aim downward, his brow furrowed.  “Éinín, sometimes… it is better—” the rest was cut off by a careful cough that still looked like it hurt sharply, and Bane laid a large hand spread over his chest.

“Rest, brother,” he ordered, “I can speak for us both.”  The nod it pulled from Barsad was reluctant, but his eyes closed tiredly, his grip releasing John.  “John,” he redirected his attention, “we wished to keep you separate, out of harm’s way.  We know you are skilled,” he added with an upheld hand when John was about to argue against that, having to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep obediently quiet, “but we needed you to stay safe, to remain uninvolved.”

“So all this I’ve been doing, having me babysit Wayne, that’s all just been to keep me occupied, out of your hair?”  A harsh breath shot through his nostrils, and he gripped tightly at the bedrail.  “That’s bullshit.  You know I’m good enough, smart enough; it’s Ra’s, isn’t it?  His plan?”  A small nod was all he needed.  “Right, and he thought I was training well, so what’s the problem?”

Bane stepped forward then, holding John’s cheek and chin in his hand.  “We needed to know that Mr. Wayne would not be a problem for us, and your surveillance has helped greatly.  And how would you have been, little one, as part of a team to personally force this city to tear itself apart?”  There was a gentler quality to his tone, patient, perhaps, but John’s anger and frustration only interpreted pity.

“I know the goddamned mission,” he spat, stepping back.  “Gotham was always going to fall, I _knew_ that.  I _know_ that.”  Running his hands back harshly through his hair, he finally spotted the masks at the end of the bed, beside Barsad’s feet.  They were small, barely able to fit over a mouth and nose, and he picked one up.  Bane’s mask had automatic filters, he wouldn’t need one, and so one had to have been meant for John.  It was pliable, easily folding flat in his hands, and he stuffed it into his jacket’s pocket. 

“It’s the gas, isn’t it?”  When Bane said nothing, he continued, “I saw notes meant for Earle about lost items, tensely-worded notes.  It’s what, in the water?”  Bane only nodded.  “And there’s something’s gonna make it into gas again, into vapor?”  Another nod.  “Fuck, I should know these things,” he yelled, “instead of being in the dark until one of you gets shot and nothing’s happening to the people responsible!”

“Little one,” Bane began, his patience clearly waning, but John shook his head, backing away from the extended hand.  

“No.  I’m taking care of the rest of this, and I’ll meet you later tonight.”  Every muscle felt tight, wound up, as if springs on a bear trap.  Bane warned him to keep the mask on him, to be careful, but he hardly listened as he walked out.

This time through, not one guard met his eyes, several moving quickly out of his way.  The heat had left him, replaced by a hard, cold center.  From it, he drew calm around himself like a cloak, masking the rage still boiling somewhere below, undetectable.

It was a short cab ride, a cheap fare even for Gotham, but it had been better than walking even if he wasn’t feeling too much pain yet.  He wanted to be sure he arrived in good condition.  His approach to the bar Falcone typically occupied reminded him exactly why he needed his strength; there were two muscle-bound men in suits guarding the door, and he knew that show of force was only scratching the surface of the inside.

He let them pat him down in front of the door; there was no avoiding it if he wanted to get inside.  They let him in quickly enough when they didn’t find anything on him except for the mask they only seemed amused by and the pack of cigarettes he’d picked up over the last couple of days.  Bane had had words to say about his habit recently, threatened punishments for catching him with them, but there was too much going on right then.  Pulling the pack from his pocket and shaking one out, he lit up the second he got inside the bar.  No sense in making a brash entrance, not when there were a dozen pairs of eyes on him already.  Ignoring them at first, he stepped up to the bar and ordered himself a drink both for appearances’ sake as well as simply for himself. 

The shot he downed immediately, before taking a beer.  The alcohol burned his throat, and he had to swallow back the lurch in his stomach at the smell.  It brought back old, unpleasant memories—shouting voices, broken chairs, the darkness of the closet where he hid—but its effect calmed his nerves.  Necessary evil.

Turning around, he scanned the booths, knowing exactly who to look for.  Falcone may have been gone, but he had men that ran his operations who were just as feared as he was.  The corner booth held a man of about forty, another pair of men nearer to John’s age, and one with his arm over back of the cushion, around a woman’s shoulders, his fingertips running slowly along her skin.  Three guns, at least, just at his booth.  Two more at the door, the bartender most likely had at least one behind the counter, but he’d be more interested in saving his own ass than joining a firefight.  Most of the men inside were sitting, making it harder to tell if they had blades, as well, though he spotted a few ankle and calf straps.  Not that they’d matter much if things lit up.

Half the eyes in the room flicked to watch him as he strode over to the table, sliding into the bench opposite the older man.  “Jimmy Marone, right?” he spoke evenly. 

“Who’s askin’?  You got no business around here, kid, ‘less you’re lookin’ to bet some of your trust fund on a fight.”  With a sizing-up look over John’s suit, the man scoffed as he puffed on a cigarette. 

“John?” a smooth voice rose from the other curve of the bench.  He hadn’t even looked at her, had been too worried about the others.


	24. Chapter 24

“Tami…”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice tight.

Before John could answer, startled nearly out of his focus, Jimmy interrupted.  “Hey, this ain’t a reunion,” he growled.  “Pretty boy here needs to stop wasting my time in my own joint.”

Forcing his eyes back away from Tami, he spoke evenly, “I came to talk about Barsad.”  His eyes were steady on Jimmy now.

Jimmy feigned a moment’s thought.  “Who, that hired gun?  Took care of that mess already, so what you want out of it?”  Far less relaxed than his shrug displayed, he took a swallow of his drink.

“He’s my dad,” John said coolly, a sharp contrast to the fire he felt inside, still burning.

Jimmy blinked, a look of amused recognition crossing his face.  “Yeah, right,” he laughed, no longer intimidated.  It was a mistake John would make him regret.  “The street brat he took on.  You still hanging around?”

John felt some of the heat at his core rise, roil towards the surface.  “Who else was in on taking him out?”

Avoiding the question again, Jimmy laughed, talking to the other men.  “This kid’s been a mob brat his whole life,” he jeered, jerking his thumb in John’s direction.

“Oh yeah,” said one of the older men in the next booth, “this is Blake’s kid, right?”

The world around him felt like it suddenly turned numb, soundless, chilling his skin as he looked from one laughing face to the next.  Tami’s stood out, a careful mask, but he knew the signs; she was nervous.  “What do you mean?” he demanded quietly, his teeth clenched.  “What do you know about Blake?”

“Oh, he doesn’t know,” Jimmy spoke, taking his arm from the back of the bench where he’d put it to talk to the other laughing man.  “Your daddy, your _real_ daddy,” he began, leaning forward with his elbow on the table as if telling a campfire tale, “got himself in deep with Falcone, betting more than he had on fights, having to work off his debts.  Until, that is, he decided he was too good for ol’ Jimmy and Carmine.”  His eyes held John’s, his voice patronizing, as if to a small child.   “So he quit, he said, was gonna pay up his debts and be on his way, but it don’t work that way, not around here, and not,” he emphasized the word with a point at John, “with Falcone.”  Sitting back, he spread his hands.  “So he had to pay up, and when he didn’t have it, we made an example of him.  You see, kid,” he went on, shoulders relaxed, neck loose, seeming to have decided that John was no threat at all, “when you’re no use to us anymore, you gotta go.  Just like Blake, and just like that Mick that took you in.  You just have piss-poor luck picking parentals, that’s all.  Damn shame, that is, but it ain’t my fault.”

Tami quietly voiced his name, an appeal, an attempt to cool things down.  She had seen him in more than one tussle in the schoolyard years ago, when he’d been poked at and provoked until the red came through, until he couldn’t control it and it swallowed him whole.  She’d also been there after, when he’d found himself in the office and had to ask what had happened.  She remembered.

“So he died because he wouldn’t be your bitch,” he grunted out less than carefully.

“No, kid, he just finally paid off his debt.”

Whatever was said next, whatever sounds existed inside the bar in that moment, he had no knowledge of it.  The red rose up across his vision, blurring faces, drowning out any sounds except for the rush of blood past his ears, and he was lost to it.

____________________

Tami didn’t seem eager to tell him when he couldn’t answer, but she didn’t get the chance.  The second she opened her mouth, whether it held an explanation or not, the bathroom door burst open, and the frame of it was filled with a towering form.  A gasp left Tami quickly, and the way she shrank back had John looking up, his eyes adjusting more sluggishly. 

“…Kojo?” he questioned, his voice uncertain despite being sure he was seeing the man’s distinctive frame.  It was surprising to see him at all, after a year, let alone the sudden appearance.  “Why are you here?  How… did you know where I was?  Where’ve you _been_ all this time?”

“I tracked your phone,” came the reply as if it were obvious.  “And I was with our others,” he spoke more carefully, undoubtedly due to Tami.

“What are you doing in here?” Tami demanded, cutting in as soon as she’d gotten her wits back.  Even standing, she was nowhere near his towering height, her eyes level with his upper arm, but she stood firm, her back straight, face aimed challengingly up at him.  John watched her, admiring the strength he saw even knowing she was afraid and intimidated.

With a dark eyebrow raised in John’s direction, Kojo turned to her and held his hands in view, empty, non-threatening.  John wasn’t fooled for a second; he knew how quickly the man could reach for any weapon he happened to have on-hand—strapped to his side, back, leg, ankle, upper arm—and he knew how dangerous and deadly he could be even without their assistance.  “I’m just here for the kid, alright?”

“Kojo, she’s a friend, she—”

“John, be quiet,” Tami ordered at the same time as he got a “shut up a minute” from Kojo.  Nice, real nice.  “I haven’t hurt him, and this is not his blood,” Tami was swift to add.

“If it’s not his, then he’s more than fine enough to come with me,” Kojo responded, stepping towards the tub.  “John, where are your clothes?”

Of course it wasn’t until just then that he realized, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know_?”  There was concern in his voice, though masked as annoyance, impatience; of course, it was possible the latter was still sincere.  “Why don’t you know?”

“I…”  His head still wasn’t feeling right, and he couldn’t think of where the clothes would be.  He didn’t remember taking them off at all.

“Look,” Tami started, stepping in front of Kojo, blocking his way to John.  “He needed some taking care of, and I did.  But he’s not going anywhere just yet, not until he can think straight and decide for himself that he _wants_ to go with you or anyone else.  Understood?”

Even as he was, John could see how Kojo contemplated just pushing Tami aside to get to him, but he stopped, taking a calming breath and a step back.  “Then I wait with him.”

“That’s fine, but you’ll do your waiting out in the other room, got it?  We’re on the sixth floor and the fire escape is from the bedroom.  He’s not going anywhere.”

“I’m fine, really,” John repeated, shakily rising out of the tub.  To his embarrassment, his feet slipped and he sprawled, his head only missing the faucet by an inch.  In a flash, he found Kojo’s arms around him, securely holding him and then lifting him out. 

“He was in shock; he needs rest, not manhandling!”  Tami’s voice was raised sharply as she gathered a towel to wrap around him.  “Keep him warm,” she ordered.

Kojo grunted an agreement, regathering John’s limbs which had flailed at being lifted off the tub floor, and wrapped the material around him before carting him to the bedroom.  “What happened?” he asked as he settled John onto the end of what John assumed had to be Tami’s bed.

Tami’s face was even more guarded than it had been earlier, her tone sounding like it matched as she asked, “What do you mean?”

And there was the glare John knew well.  It was aimed at Tami, though, and not John, for once.  “You said he was in shock, and someone else’s blood just washed off him and down that drain, so I’ll ask again,” he paused to level a hard stare at her, “what _happened_?”  He kept a hand on John’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze when a shudder shook through him.  “Tell me.”

The room was silent for several moments before Tami spoke again.  Crossing her arms as she turned to face him, she answered in an even, steady voice, “There was a fight.  John got me out.”

John watched Kojo’s face, the disbelief on it, and had to wonder, himself, how true it was.  Trying to remember anything after he saw red just hurt, staying fuzzy.  Usually, he just let it go, at least when he’d been young.  Someone had always just told him what he’d done, because he’d always been punished for it.

“So he just happened to have blood all over him from taking you out of a fight?” Kojo asked flatly.

“That’s what I said,” returned Tami in kind.  “I’m sure you heard me.”

“Stop, both of you,” John forced out past the shaking in his stomach.  Something was settling in the pit of it, sitting heavily in it like a stone.  “Just stop arguing; it’s over.”

Tami’s face softened a little at his words, and she moved to sit beside him, slipping an arm protectively around his waist.  “He’s staying until he’s back to himself, so if you’re staying, too, then you had better make yourself a better guest so I feel like letting you.”  Her tone pulled a small smile at John’s mouth, and he leaned into her side.  It felt better to have her take charge for the moment.

Kojo let out a snort, annoyed as he crossed his arms over his chest.  “Trying to piece together what happened to him isn’t being a poor guest, but a good caretaker.”

“You’re not my caretaker,” John bit out, huddling under the towel.

“I am now, John.  Plans tonight have… gone awry,” he began, and John sat up sharply, willing his mind to focus.  “I’m to take you to them, to say goodbye, and then I’m to stay with you.”

“WHAT?” he shouted, standing before he thought better of it and wobbled back onto the edge of the bed.  “What do you mean 'goodbye'?  The fuck’s going on?” he demanded.

Eyes flicking to Tami, Kojo gave a quick shake of his head.  “Not here,” he answered.

“Fuck that,” John growled, spots at the edge of his vision.  He couldn’t lose them again, not after the last year apart had nearly driven him crazy, and not after everything that had happened since they’d come back.  “Tell me, damnit!”

“Don’t be a child, John.”  The rebuke was spit out tensely.  “There is more than you involved here, and she _isn’t_ ,” he added the last part with a point of his finger in Tami’s direction.  “How do you even know her?”

“We went to school together,” Tami supplied, “when we were little.”

Kojo scoffed.  “And he hasn’t been to school, since.”

“Enough!” John yelled, having to hold his head after, the outburst feeling like it split the inside of his skull. 

“One more of those,” Kojo warned, “and we’re leaving whether she likes it or not, got it?”  Checking a small cell phone in his pocket, Kojo frowned.  “We don’t have a lot of time, as it is.”  As his head cleared again, John could sense the tension in Kojo’s body, the uncertainty and nervous look in his eyes.  They didn’t bode well, especially if he was talking about Bane and Barsad leaving.

Shucking the towel, not caring that he was naked, John stood again, slowly this time.  “We need to go,” he muttered.  “I need to find out what’s going on.”

Though she started to protest, one look at John’s face and Tami only sighed and nodded.  “Fine… there should be some clothes that will suit you well enough,” she added, walking to a dresser.

Kojo started to say something, eyebrow ticked up in question, but was silenced quickly by a dark warning glare from John, who assumed it could only be about Tami keeping men’s clothing around.  Taking the slacks and button-down shirt, he carefully dressed, pushing away Kojo’s hands when he tried to help steady him.  “I got it,” he bit out.  “Let’s just go.”

“John…”  Tami settled a hand loosely on his arm, fingers just brushing his skin, the other handing him his cell phone.  “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“You’re staying?”

Her smile was kind, though almost pitying.  “This is my life, John.”  She shrugged.  “There’s more to it than who was in that bar.  I’ll be alright.”

Frowning, John leaned to kiss her cheek.  “Thank you,” he spoke quietly.  “I want to talk about this later, okay?”  The last was whispered, though he assumed Kojo could still likely hear it.

“Nothing to talk about,” she insisted quietly in return, patting his cheek.  “Go, find out about your dads.”  John’s brows rose, but she just smiled.  “A little obvious,” she added with a wink.  Her eyes didn’t show her smile, and her brows twitched, but he’d come back after he dealt with whatever was going on.

With a quick nod, he let Kojo lead him out of the building.  There was a motorcycle waiting in the alley.  “Great,” he let out flatly.  “I have to hold onto you, huh.”

“Unless you’d rather fall,” Kojo returned almost cheerfully at his discomfort.  “They said you had a mask, but I'm assuming you lost that,” he spoke as he swung a long leg over the seat of the bike, getting it started and tossing John a new one.  “Now would be a good time to put it on.”

Looking around, the air was clear, no vapor.  “Here?” he asked, fixing it into place.  Questioning was one thing, delaying them, another. 

Kojo fixed his own before donning a helmet and tossing a spare to John as he moved to sit behind him.  “Just in case.”

His balance was too shaky not to hold on, and he had to clutch tightly to Kojo’s waist as they maneuvered through the city streets.  The apartment he’d woken up in had already been on the outskirts of the Narrows, a couple of blocks from the bar, and they wound their way out further, towards the shipping district.  Many of the alleys and side streets they rode past looked as if riots had broken out, but he couldn’t see any people. 

When they parked, he noted they were a few blocks down from the docks, stopping at a sewer outflow area, where there were two black SUVs parked, as well.  The sight of them made John’s heart rise into his throat, worried that they really were leaving him behind.  Again.  Once Kojo helped him stand, his legs more rubbery for the ride, healing leg sore but able to be ignored for more pressing matters, the back door of the front SUV opened and Bane climbed out, followed by Talia, whose face was the most fixed mask he had ever seen it.  Bane’s hand was on her back as they approached.  Talia folded her arms around herself, as if she were cold, but he knew better.  Something really had gone wrong. 

Swallowing past the lump in his throat and removing his mask, he barely managed to croak out a “Hello.”

“John,” Bane greeted, pulling him into a close embrace, large hand stroking down the back of his head, through his hair, before releasing him.  His other hand stayed with Talia who didn’t step forward to greet him.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his muscles feeling like they were ready to jump out of his skin if they could just organize themselves into the effort.  Not knowing what to do with his hands, he picked at his nails.

“Our former brother has caused more trouble than we anticipated,” Bane began, his voice somber, almost catching in his throat.  John was wholly unused to the sound of it.  “Our plan for Gotham has failed,” he continued, his hand shifting on Talia’s back, soothing, “and we have lost men.”

It had to have, he realized, for only part of the city to be in such a state of chaos.  If city water had been vaporized at all, it wasn’t much, relatively; Tami’s apartment had been fine.  Finding it even harder to swallow, John flicked his eyes between them, only feeling his heart stop hammering quite so loudly when he saw Kojo helping Barsad out of the other SUV, staying with him—though not touching him—as he slowly walked over to join them.  John worried that he might collapse for how bad off he’d seemed earlier.  “How many?”

Bane shook his head.  “Their number is yet to be determined.”  There was a near-tangible moment of silence before he added, “But we have lost our leader.”

John stared at him.  The world went strangely quiet for another moment, and it took him several more to look to Talia, to the mask of pain on her face, her rigid posture, and he knew it had to be true.  “He…”

Bane nodded.  “Barsad and I will be taking men elsewhere to recover, to regroup, and to begin new work for the next step.”  John kept his face still.  “You will remain here, as will Talia, to keep your positions in Gotham for when we will need them again.”  A strong hand ran through John’s hair, and a thumb swept away the tear he couldn’t hold back.  “I know, little one,” he added softly, “it hurts our hearts, as well.”

Speaking for the first time, Barsad stepped up beside Bane.  “Kojo will stay with you, John,” he said tightly, clearly not well enough to be standing with them but too stubborn to remain in the SUV.  He also hadn’t used his nickname for John, and it made his voice sound far colder than John ever wished to hear him.  “We will return when we can, I promise you that.” 

Even knowing it had to hurt him, John couldn’t keep himself from embracing the man.  He slid his arms around him snugly, as carefully as he could keep himself, feeling the scruff of his beard brush and burn against his own neck and willing himself to remember exactly how it felt, not knowing how long it would be until he felt it again.  Sniffing quietly, hiding the sound in the crook of Barsad’s neck as his hair was run through, his ear whispered into with fond phrases in Irish, meant only for him, John finally stepped back, standing straight when clear blue eyes gave him an encouraging stare, though full of pain themselves. 

Looking between Bane and Talia again, knowing in his heart but needing it to be confirmed, he asked Bane, “The former brother… Who…?”

“Wayne,” Talia answered for him, spitting the name out coldly, “and he will pay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original posting End-Note]:  
> Thanks for all of the encouragements and kind words, my friends! Thanks especially to [denna5](http://denna5.tumblr.com/) for sticking around for months while I complained about this monster, and [frozenbrimstone](http://frozenbrimstone.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading... twice! There are a few others who've left me encouraging messages in the last year who really helped to get this done, and I sincerely thank each of you.
> 
> There will eventually be a part 3, though I'm unsure if it will lend itself to 4.


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